Do you remember me?
I mean me.
The Luna Lovegood who wears socks during *** cause she'll take anything that'll increase her chances of an ******
or how I doodle on the sides of my notebook about boys who hurt me but my best poetry is when I'm angry or otherwise disabled.
I swear in different languages coating the words with saliva cause sometimes they're hard to swallow. Sometimes I just spit.
Do you remember me the way I remember you?
Selfless to your self you put your chances of survival before the chance of actually surviving.
You hated your mother and sometimes your father but I never understood why your brother understood money in terms of power rather than metal and paper,
But then again.
I wasn't meant to understand it.
Cause if by the end of it,
If you don't see bruises on your skin,
You'll know that you didn't try hard enough.
but you don't have to try just yet.
today, the rain will sing us to sleep.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
There's a woman standing in the line for cheese
and I see a sadness in her eyes
and a mouth full of lies.
She's gonna tell him,
I spent it on tailoring your vest,
and he won't believe her
and I suppose you can guess what comes next.
she doesn't know it yet,
but when she takes the goat cheese back home
her daughter will tell her she wanted brie
and her son will sell his father's shirt
for pick up drug money.
you dont know it yet,
but this line will cause death.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.
My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.
The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
Hey, can we get away?
I know it's only been two weeks and four days,
But do you understand how good a mother
I would be?
The only reason I wouldn't do this,
Is because when you look
For a perfect man;
You don't want him to be more perfect than you.
I can raise our daughter to be
A better version of me
~the version you fell for~
I know it.
You see, my insecurities are
Getting ahead of me.
I will never be
As rich
As resilient
As hardworking
~maybe i'll quit when it gets hard?~
I'll never complain though,
I swear I won't.
Your mother scares me
But I promise,
That when **** finally gets good,
I'll be the daughter she never had.
I already get along with the rest of your family anyway.
I won't be the prettiest
Or the fittest
Or the funniest
But I swear to keep a stash of
Stories of stars
And moonlight sonatas
And shy hugs
And support so cosmic,
The solar system will revolve around us.
I promise to never make you feel mediocre.
Because that's all I am
And I know just
How bad it hurts.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
I was ashamed.
Ashamed of the garden growing
between my legs
Ashamed that i had been so
preoccupied with my depression
that i hadn't had time to mow the
lawn, for you,
But you didn't know that.
Neither of us knew it was going to
happen that way
In the greenroom of an educational institution
Where we somehow learnt more
than what
The curriculum asked us to.
I somehow learnt what you
intended to teach me.
and as i wrapped my pudgy fingers
around your manhood,
You disengaged the clasp of my bra.
Asking how something of such
sheer complexity could be
Done by me
Every morning
every night.
I was ashamed.
Ashamed of how my ******* were brown
Like days old bananas
Unlike bright summer berries.
Unlike the ******* of those girls you
watched from the back of the class.
I was ashamed of the cellulite
on my thighs
And i refused to let you see
My big girl body with weeds in the garden.
But you slipped your hand
down my skirt
And asked me if i liked it.
I said yes, i leaned back into you, and i said
Yes;
Yes;
Yes;
over and over and over again
But i felt empty.
Like how you felt after your
string of pearls
Had been released.
When i dropped you off at the door,
You did not hug me.
When i tried to hold you hand
You walked away
You said you would, if you had time
But you always have time for other
girls.
Or maybe its because i dont
remind you much of a girl anymore.
I am an empty bottle
A candle exhausted of any wax
A body with burns and bruises
caused by a civil war raging in my
brain
Of paranoia because i know
I can never be loved.
Or maybe i'm a candle whose wax
is love.
I am dilapidated apartment in a
suburban neighbourhood
An object you threw away when it went past expiry date.
One man's waste is every man's
waste.
I am used tissue paper.
Don't touch me.
Your explanation was quiet
It felt like a cold bath on a winter day.
And i said okay.
And i agreed that it would be okay
if you left this
Deteriorated, haunted dwelling
For a home.
I only wanted what was best for
you.
Don't Worry About Me.
I said.
I'll be okay
I'll do stuff
I’ll open an orphanage
I’ll travel the world
I’ll cook
I’ll read
I’ll write
Maybe i’ll find my Pedro who will be the Juan for me.
But my calm was a veil you could see through
But did nothing about
But you see, my love,
As i sowed the seeds of your own
garden
You told me
I was a used toy.
I didn't bring any excitement, or joy.
And so that evening, after you refused to pick up my call
no matter how many times i called,
You stubbed a cigarette on my
passion.
You poured water over burning
embers by saying you were
‘Not sure’ whether you loved me.
You reminded me of how you ran
your fingers through the weeds in
my garden
And i questioned
Is is because you like other girls
houses?
With nicer gardens?
With an electric heater instead of a
bonfire that lights up like a gehenna.
That night, you told me we should
rethink
You stopped saying i love you and
when you left,
You did not hug me at the door.
I trimmed my garden
And polished the furniture
And sent you pictures of our newly
decorated mansion
But this home, was now empty.
You left it haunted by the idea that
no one could love a displaced storm.
It's still empty.
It's a mansion that has an
overgrown garden again
The weeds are spilling out
And i can't bother to trim them anymore.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
You came unexpectedly. Like a welcome guest of old days. You glided into my sixteen-year-old curiosity, which, at the time was a week shy of wounds two months deep. You remembered smells and tastes and ****** puns. You flicked cigarettes with the vibe of breaking hearts. You lifted weights with the vibe of protecting your sister from all that could ever go wrong. You drove like that too. With the engine pushing, accelerating to over 200 kph on empty highways with Halsey booming through my ******** comments; so smooth, it felt like jumping off a cliff. Unlike how I felt after you left. I was full to the brim. Buzzing with poetry and sultry words. Little did I know that you had a string of babies like me. Ones that blog their moods in metaphors and mostly they are all dedicated to you.
I remember they say something about summer rain.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC