evelinavely - Hello Poetry

I stole the flowers to my own grave, I cleaned the floor from blood and got away. My crime is breaking hearts and being heartbroken, the thrill of pain I seek again, provoked. And I keep the needles in the space between my fingers where your fingers used to be.

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Nov 26, 2019

Nov 26, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC

Needles

I stole the flowers to my own grave, I cleaned the floor from blood and got away. My crime is breaking hearts and being heartbroken, the thrill of pain I seek again, provoked. And I keep the needles in the space between my fingers where your fingers used to be.

5

I call my name, I plead in quiet desperation, I try to stay afloat, I let my mind strike an arrow in a danger zone of imagination: the waves as cover to my fear, and then I squeeze my pain like a nettle in my palm and breathe for just a fleeting moment. I see it clearly: my first ride without side wheels, the spring has yet to settle its’ warmer palms into April’s edges. My parents’ cheerful encouragement is bright, and my bruised knees don’t hurt as bleeding is not the only pain I’ve learnt to feel by now. I see my heart be gently broken and I break someone else’s heart — I hate myself for that, I hate myself, I’m back, I’m back to drowning. The rapid flow of sorrow is fitting between my ribs like a habit I hoped I buried before. I call my name again. My entire body is shivering in a steamed bathroom, I hold onto the cold of sink and I’m sinking again, the ringing in my ears gets quieter — I feel it. Feel the tickling dark to move from the back of my head towards my temples, it puts its palm on my weakest shoulder — the one I keep for all my loved ones to lean on. I never let myself to weep, although my face is hot and wet from streams of anguish I cannot keep inside. I picture my younger self in the greatest pain on a hallway floor while nurse hesitates and joins in lulling — she calls my name, she pleads. I’m picturing myself with my head and bloodstream full of meds be let outside to only snap again and act as my worst enemy once more: my wrists and arms are witnesses to that. My wild violence towards myself is what will feed the fear and self-destructive thoughts I act upon. I’m bored and that’s my sadness’ strongest drug.

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Nov 23, 2019

Nov 23, 2019 at 6:20 AM UTC

On the Eve of Depression

I call my name, I plead in quiet desperation, I try to stay afloat, I let my mind strike an arrow in a danger zone of imagination: the waves as cover to my fear, and then I squeeze my pain like a nettle in my palm and breathe for just a fleeting moment. I see it clearly: my first ride without side wheels, the spring has yet to settle its’ warmer palms into April’s edges. My parents’ cheerful encouragement is bright, and my bruised knees don’t hurt as bleeding is not the only pain I’ve learnt to feel by now. I see my heart be gently broken and I break someone else’s heart — I hate myself for that, I hate myself, I’m back, I’m back to drowning. The rapid flow of sorrow is fitting between my ribs like a habit I hoped I buried before. I call my name again. My entire body is shivering in a steamed bathroom, I hold onto the cold of sink and I’m sinking again, the ringing in my ears gets quieter — I feel it. Feel the tickling dark to move from the back of my head towards my temples, it puts its palm on my weakest shoulder — the one I keep for all my loved ones to lean on. I never let myself to weep, although my face is hot and wet from streams of anguish I cannot keep inside. I picture my younger self in the greatest pain on a hallway floor while nurse hesitates and joins in lulling — she calls my name, she pleads. I’m picturing myself with my head and bloodstream full of meds be let outside to only snap again and act as my worst enemy once more: my wrists and arms are witnesses to that. My wild violence towards myself is what will feed the fear and self-destructive thoughts I act upon. I’m bored and that’s my sadness’ strongest drug.

35

Through tiny specks of freezing water, “It doesn’t have to be this way.” “It does,” I hear her trembling voice picked up by wind and smoke — and sleepless night still holds her wrists although we passed the afternoon already. It’s evening. Not cold, but rain insists on bringing shiver to my knees. My sympathy is pouring from my both my pockets and my heart, and I can’t stop the other one from being broken. Contrasts of glass, and city, people, feeling lonely. We sit so close yet far away. The grey concrete is angry colour of mood we share — along with sickly sweet unfitting for this occasion drink I bought with small discount. So forlorn. We leave that place, and the ordeal of life still being a constant alternation will bring us there once more. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” I take a pause before I answer, “It doesn’t, but it’s how it is.”

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Sep 26, 2019

Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC

Broken hearts on their sleeves.

Through tiny specks of freezing water, “It doesn’t have to be this way.” “It does,” I hear her trembling voice picked up by wind and smoke — and sleepless night still holds her wrists although we passed the afternoon already. It’s evening. Not cold, but rain insists on bringing shiver to my knees. My sympathy is pouring from my both my pockets and my heart, and I can’t stop the other one from being broken. Contrasts of glass, and city, people, feeling lonely. We sit so close yet far away. The grey concrete is angry colour of mood we share — along with sickly sweet unfitting for this occasion drink I bought with small discount. So forlorn. We leave that place, and the ordeal of life still being a constant alternation will bring us there once more. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” I take a pause before I answer, “It doesn’t, but it’s how it is.”

21

Has anyone ever told you that you are the most endearing person in human existence? Because I think you are. With your sacred motion that spreads along my lungs, with your pretty laughter during an evident silence. Haphazard glances at vivid rays, and your verdant eyes stare straight at me, and I feel blue. I try to hide my lasting grief and fickle spirits, I cherish you in many ways. I keep in mind eternal summer, eternal bliss, eternal souls, and our names that changed. The story's blessed by future prays, you, my pal, and I are waiting.

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Feb 1, 2019

Feb 1, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC

To my soulmate, who is now someone else's soulmate.

Has anyone ever told you that you are the most endearing person in human existence? Because I think you are. With your sacred motion that spreads along my lungs, with your pretty laughter during an evident silence. Haphazard glances at vivid rays, and your verdant eyes stare straight at me, and I feel blue. I try to hide my lasting grief and fickle spirits, I cherish you in many ways. I keep in mind eternal summer, eternal bliss, eternal souls, and our names that changed. The story's blessed by future prays, you, my pal, and I are waiting.

20

A sudden smile on chapped lips appeared. And I, with a quiet breath, a timid glance, have caught it, kept it, let it be. And mirror shows the face I’ve known for its solemnity and gloom be bright and sparkling – vibrant glow. A hopeful tint to my joyless heart that fought to find a smile that blooms and stays with me right now, for good.

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Feb 1, 2019

Feb 1, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC

The first smile after being depressed for so long you forgot how your contented face looks like.

A sudden smile on chapped lips appeared. And I, with a quiet breath, a timid glance, have caught it, kept it, let it be. And mirror shows the face I’ve known for its solemnity and gloom be bright and sparkling – vibrant glow. A hopeful tint to my joyless heart that fought to find a smile that blooms and stays with me right now, for good.

12

I sense a lot; my saturated feelings consume me, eat me, clench my heart, and softly pet it as though it purrs for me to move, to breath, to keep existing, when no existence is enough for me to feel alive and present.

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Jan 30, 2019

Jan 30, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC

To you, who feel too much.

I sense a lot; my saturated feelings consume me, eat me, clench my heart, and softly pet it as though it purrs for me to move, to breath, to keep existing, when no existence is enough for me to feel alive and present.

10

I follow myself around my flat, feeding the time my contemplations; it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon. I carry my turmoil with pins in my pockets, i keep my hands inside. Depression boils all my frozen insides, makes them bland and chewable.

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Jan 30, 2019

Jan 30, 2019 at 5:15 AM UTC

The warmth of Depression

I follow myself around my flat, feeding the time my contemplations; it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon. I carry my turmoil with pins in my pockets, i keep my hands inside. Depression boils all my frozen insides, makes them bland and chewable.

11

Look at my seams: untouched, raw. I sew them gently, my hands were shaking with almost fear that I can't put a needle through my soul myself. Alone. I am afraid to say, to be the one who finally admits that help comes forward, if only I let someone touch the seams, and heal it, and help me heal myself.

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Jan 29, 2019

Jan 29, 2019 at 6:12 PM UTC

Healing.

Look at my seams: untouched, raw. I sew them gently, my hands were shaking with almost fear that I can't put a needle through my soul myself. Alone. I am afraid to say, to be the one who finally admits that help comes forward, if only I let someone touch the seams, and heal it, and help me heal myself.

14

Panic stifles, suffocates. My throat feels dry; a clump, that brings disquiet in, sticks there like a hull, a twig, and moves its sharper edges along my trembling soft insides. "Get out!" I would scream, "Get out, worries and my fears. Remain, serene feeling."

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Jan 29, 2019

Jan 29, 2019 at 7:56 AM UTC

Anxiety

Panic stifles, suffocates. My throat feels dry; a clump, that brings disquiet in, sticks there like a hull, a twig, and moves its sharper edges along my trembling soft insides. "Get out!" I would scream, "Get out, worries and my fears. Remain, serene feeling."

10