“The truth is I ride the bus and hope that I see you.
I cross my legs and uncross them, hold my own hand.
The piano in my living room is never touched.
I can’t stop eating peanut butter with my fingers.
My shorts are too short, probably, and this is the reason
that strange men stop and look at me as I walk past them.
I check my teeth for traces of lipstick,
forget to look both ways before crossing the street.
I am not always careful with the body I’ve been given.
Sometimes I want to dye my hair purple or cut it off
and give it to a child with cancer. Sometimes I am selfish
and never want to cut it, ever. Everyday it is the same
number of bobby pins. I want to find a poem in this.”—Kristina Haynes, “The Truth Is” (via fleurishes)
There’s something soothing about closing your eyes and listening to the footsteps around you, I try to gather their personality by their steps —- I see slow-paced footsteps as curious; cautious; lost; observant; calm; might be having a bad day; day dreamer; exhausted; might have nowhere to go so they’re killing time; passionate; gentle; patient; I’d imagine people that walk in a slow-pace manner are patient lovers or too in tune with taking their sweet time to the extent love flees from them. Slow-paced footsteps are more likely to pay attention to the details rather than rapid footsteps.
Woke up to my bones whispering words of love and my joints giggled. I ignored my bones, tried to muffle my joints laughter, and slouched out of spite; looked out the window and stared at the naked branches. It was 2:30 A.M., my favorite time to be awake because the sky turns a luminous purple and the branches stand out more. It’s the only time I tell myself I want to live. Or rather, that exact moment is worth living. With or without love I’ve always been dragging my feet, the difference this time around is I feel a body on top of me. I feel warmth. I feel the weight of his body as I keep on dragging my feet forward and I feel soft kisses on my neck. Sometimes I feel his hands wrap around my neck… I keep hoping one day he’ll choke me but he never does. I do that just fine on my own. I’ve always kept my nails short, but lately I’ve been letting them grow long, I’m not sure why. I tell myself just because. But I think it’s because I’m waiting for something so I’m letting parts of me grow.
“Hers was a twilight world, where the moon floated up over the trees at night like a tremulous balloon of silver light and the bluish rays wavered through the leaves outside her window, quivering in fluid patterns on the wallpaper of her room. The very air was mildly opaque, and forms wavered and blended one with the other. The wind blew in gentle, capricious gusts, now here, now there, coming from the sea or from the rose garden (she could tell by the scent of water or of flowers).”—Sylvia Plath “Sunday at the Mintons”, from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams (via krf)
…Remember how I mentioned there was this girl that kept calling me a cutie on this one game. Well, after a few weeks of laying low I encountered her again today. I was going to teleport the moment I saw her, but it takes a few seconds until you enter another area, so her character faced me and she said ♥ cutie. omg.
“1. He smells like the first day of winter and my bones are sick of rattling in the cold.
2. Sometimes he sits so still, and I can’t understand it because I haven’t stopped moving since I learned how.
3. He’s so soft spoken that when he speaks every fiber in my being quiets, and all I’ve ever known is noise.
4. He does everything slow paced and patient and I’ve been hurtling towards the finish line since my day of birth.
5. Because when I traced his collar bones he shivered, and said he could feel my cold.”—
The days are becoming shorter and colder, perfect timing. Chapped lips. Frozen fingertips, the sensation of the coldness and warmth combined. A warm beverage or a nice warm bowl of soup. Flushed cheeks. There’s nothing better than having someone else’s warmth radiate with yours. In the cold we see strangers as our own personal heaters, short embraces to keep warm for a brief moment. We seek refuge in each other during the cold and when the birds start singing once again, we flee from one another. In many ways I’m more myself when I’m freezing. How do I describe it? It feels like home and it feels like suffering. Everyone I know calls me a polar bear. I haven’t really spoken to anyone since discovering my mother is ill. She spends her days sitting in one spot and looking out the window.
Skin is soil and hair is grass. Every kiss should have a signature. Every voice should have just the right amount of honey and just the right amount of venom. Give Earth’s skin a few bruises as long as you intend to kiss them until they fully heal. Earth is more forgiving than most people, time has shown me that. It’s important to step in puddles of blood rather than stretching your legs over the puddle to avoid it. Most of the time there’s so much blood on the floor our natural reaction is to quietly tiptoe over blood, walk to the nearest sink and wash our hands. We stare at the mirror and tell ourselves we can do this. At least for today, we can do this. But to me, if you’re not bleeding or drenched in blood then you’re not living.
We were driving and all I could see were the trees. They were all full, healthy and vibrant. Nothing else, just a road that kept going on forever and lots of trees. Eventually they started to become a blur with the speeds increasing. A nice rich green blur. But it was very sunny and he looked like he had a lot on his mind so I stayed quiet. The suns reflection kept dancing on his arm, naturally fixated by the light I touched his arm a few times. That’s all I remember… I wonder why whenever I dream about him nature plays such a huge role. There’s always so much silence in my dreams with him yet so much tension when our bodies are inches apart. When I’m foggy and he can’t see me clearly, or his back is facing me, I always look at him with sad eyes and a hint of longing in the black sea of my irises.
I told him I wanted to stop dreaming about him, but at the same time I asked him what the dream meant. It’s funny, isn’t? I remember the first time I asked him why he was in my dreams and he apologized for it. But I think he likes being there.
Cancer. My mom might have cancer… In many ways I wish I was making this up. You never think these type of things would happen to you. She had tears in her eyes and asked me what was she going to do about me. How I worry her so much, what would I be doing once she was gone… If it ever came to that. I told her I could either turn my life around or drink myself to death and then proceeded to laugh. She cried even harder. I think it’s because she sees me dead too. But I held her rough and tired face in my hands and told her to calm down, to focus on herself and her health, that I would be fine… I’d find a way somehow. In that very moment she half-heartedly believed me. She wanted to believe me and so she accepted my empty words.