I keep having this dream where
I'm 14 again and I'm sure you're the love of my life but
I keep doing stupid things
And you keep saying stupid things
And all of our friends , they call us a stupid thing
Because really ,
All we do is fight
And it tears them apart
Seeing us tear eachother apart
And you're just standing there
Bc you know I'm gonna leave again
Bc I've left
A dozen times and once more at a cemetery
But this time it's different bc this time when i try to leave I trip over the reason I fell in love with you in the first place and instead of getting up I just kneel there
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
It's like you've left me with all this yellow paint and I have no idea what to do with it
Your talent is clear to me
You're unbelievable
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
I need to learn to say I love you without sounding like I'm asking for permission to breathe. You keep loving me in ways that make me itch , quiver and faint.
Everytime I think we're getting somewhere I know we're exactly in the middle of nowhere.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
I'm starting to think God loves me better when I'm in stitches and scars,
It's 3pm on a Saturday afternoon and I've ditched a warm house warm soup and am now in a cathedral whispering " Hi, I'm Allie........ and I erm...I've got an eating disorders"
I'm 50% silk and 50% shards of glass but Somehow I've carried myself past the stairs & now I'm here feeling like the walls are mocking me...
I've spent the past 7 Augusts draped in bulimia and anorexia like a coffin and I'm ready to change clothes because I'm tired of wearing black and I'm tired of how it feels like I've been dressed for my funeral all since I've turned 13 except I'm already there watching myself get lowered into the ground but I never get there.
I never get there
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Okay so one day I'm 17 and in love with a Xhosa boy whose love is tin packed sardines wrapped in a dozen hallelujahs and the next an Artist who drinks way too much and cheats a whole lot more and I'm back sitting on my bed saying the clicks altogether wrong and telling you you're dead to me , I'm swearing to myself I'll never love another creative again and craving for the way you touched my waisted like old photographs and enveloped your hands into prayer when my shirt came off. I left 6 countries for yours and crawled underground so the border guards wouldn't see me . I loved you in a way that meant my fingerprints turned into lines of photographs and my identity was you , was you, my identity was you.
I hanged myself on paper clips and signed my name on your walls and danced without a care and tied my hair up and laid down on your word and covered canvases with paper and drew sticks of mistakes because my identity was you , my identity was you.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
My heart shatters , the pieces fall through my body , settle where they land and turn into things like a sharper tongue and clearer hindsight. I need to know why you kept using VonGoghs paintings to ruin my life
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
I swear there is more to me than this.
A week ago I couldn't spell my name out in anything but numbers and commas , no full stop
See someone once told me begging isn't the same as praying but in my 19years of life I've spent too many days silently whispering please don't switch of the outside light , mama I want to come , I want to come home .
See, I want to tell you something
About how I never thought I'd ever be the girl in an empty parking lot with a tremor making its way from my throat right past my knees to my ankles because right then and there , I am only a grain of sand inside a storm
And how I'm somehow standing there watching you teach me how traffic signs really mean nothing when noones watching . I'm thinking about Anine Booysens , her bruised and brutalized body and in the back of my head I'm scared no one will ever find me . I want to crawl into the damp cave of mouth and sleep between the cheek and teeth of you that speaks in vowels only and stretches your Xs and Qs.
But I'm not there , I'm here and this man is touching me ,
Oh God this man is touching me
Mama this man touched me ...
And we can't do anything about it
Mans this man touched me
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
I want this to be the last letter I ever write you my lover
I'm tired
I've written about a dozen letters to the moon complaining of all
these chest pains and honestly it's getting ridiculous no one reads
them, they just sit here accumulating evidence of a romance so
twisted the one lover can't even spell the others name with out
quivering with a certain uncertainty
These letters dont mean a thing
I don't know why I keep writing them, they're strange and unintelligent things
And I'll be ****** if the last thing I ever do is write about a man
who is my anchor , keeping me anchored which is ironically insane
considering an anchor is the very thing that sinks you down to the
very bottom
I'm very confused and we're very complicated
I can hardly decipher which one of us is the ship and which the anchor
I realize that I'm not as kind and innocent as I'd like to think I am
I've done ****** things just as you my king
And it's a shame I like to pretend otherwise
But not as shameful as being unable to tell whether I'm the hero or
the villain in our situation , and that's just another unpleasant
thing about us I'm never writing about again.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
I will knock out your teeth if you try to
take my love away from me— and if you
do it more than once I'll start setting
things on fire.
I'm telling you, I don't think I could ever love anyone ever again , I don't know
I don't know
see, here's the thing
it's the Sunday morning before my birthday and I'm laying in bed eating leftover cold pizza and simultaneously thinking about all of the good and the bad. The ugly, the
uglier and the so god **** ugly it's
beautiful
and I've decided I am so much
more than those things you pinned to my
skin like medals or scars.
although , ironically
I have a bulletin in my room
filled with all the horrible things I'd like to say to you , over and over and over again but I probably never will
I hope she gives you an sti, but not enough to **** you.
I want to tie you to a chair and make you watch as I burn the place you call home , to the ground
I keep staring at works because
it's so **** hard trying to decipher what is true art and just plain trash when I gone through something like you
I'm stuck feeling like frames are jails for paintings , and oil takes way to much time for me to even bother
I went out last night
and the waiter charmed me into drinking a cocktail made up of late night mistakes and sin
and half way through the drink I realized I have a hard time doing anything that doesn't end up with me being alone questioning why nothing ever really turns out as you think it should
I'm with Lynn and Im half talking half rambling about how
my pet puppy ran away when I was 13 and I named him angel.
i think I named him that because , well
i always got the feeling I wasn't living life like I was supposed to, Mother raised me catholic but I raised myself to believe in nothing but broken fists , ceilings and the kind of angels that hold your hair back only cause it suits them.
and it never made sense to my mom
and it never made sense
because none of it ever does
there'll still be hobos on Jan smuts avenue sleepin under roof folds
there'll still be daily suicides and hospital stories that'll make bodies and spirits alike collapse and high school drop outs with dreams bigger then whole buildings , there'll still be boys that eat your dignity for breakfast ad girls that will put then above their own morals
and in the end , I'll always be here standing , flipping the light switch wondering why nothing ever really turns out like you think it should
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 6:03 AM UTC