A simple white flower
Blooming on a citrus tree.
It’s opulent scent, filling my lungs
In the early dew of daybreak,
Scattering my brain, feeling the lull of
Hiraeth, a sickness for home.
In the gentle whispering wind,
The saccharine perfume whirls around
Lifting my spirit towards the Gemini moon.
It whispers “Hiraeth,”
As my lungs teem with
It’s overwhelming scent,
And my soul brims with peace,
Thinking of a long forgotten home.
Just a little springtime poem for you.
Because he makes my heart skip a beat,
Nor do I mind our feet touching feet.
”Magic is of the moment,
And when the magic does fleet
There goes but the moment.”
When the house is on fire,
Do you wait around and discuss the fire,
Or do you get out of the ******* house?
See, a rational human would smell the smoke,
Or feel the heat,
Or hear the alarms going off,
And tuck tail and run.
If you told me to stay in this blazing fortress,
If you told me you needed me to stay, until there was
Nothing but ashes around me, I would.
I'm a sucker for pain, everyone knows that.
Even if it hurts me, I'd still do it for you.
I know that's not healthy,
But I love you.
Four years ago, I felt like the world was ending.
My friend Christina Grimmie was murdered on June 10th.
On June 12th, 50 people were killed in a night club.
Four years ago 51 people lost their lives to gun violence.
Every year since then, around this time I'm eaten by a certain sadness.
It's hard to describe.
It's like I can't breathe, or I'm taking in oxygen and it's never enough.
It's like theres holes in my lungs and the air is escaping.
Never quite full, never quite the same.
I miss her.
I feel the Pulse family's pain.
Most of all, though, I feel sick.
Like every time I think about what happened I want to *****.
I miss her.
Four years ago and I miss her more and more.
I meant to add to the last one
That its agonizing for me.
And by that I mean,
I hate not being your friend.
But it's the right thing for me, I think.
It's the only way I'll ever be able to get over it and process properly, cutting ties with you.
Because as long as I'm tied to you, I'm also always going to be tied to him.
And I don't want that.
As much as I love you.
As much as I miss you.
I just can't do it right now.
Admittedly, I still read some of your poems.
I did, just now.
You wrote that sometimes you think I forget that you were his victim too.
He never ***** you.
He never abused you.
He never made you feel like you were worthless,
Always the last choice,
And he certainly didn't take your best friend away from you.
I remember picking out your white wedding dress with you.
I remember how beautiful you looked in it,
With it's laced back and fitting form.
I remember being happy that you were happy.
But in the room, as you tried it on,
I also remember feeling a little betrayed.
A thought nagged at the back of my mind:
"How could she do this, knowing what he's done?"
I still don't quite understand how you can be with him.
I don't know what the appeal is.
How could you walk around town holding onto his arm
Without thinking "they know what he is?"
Why do you want to be the girl who married a *** offender?
Why do you want to explain to your neighbors that your husband is on the registry?
I just don't get it...
Three and a half weeks ago,
he manifested into my life again, with
a single text message,
that sent a whirl of gentle snowflakes
astir in my heart.
They fluttered around, cold, but soft.
And as the flakes simmered down,
they were melted away by the sunshine
that had been hidden behind black clouds for months.
And in these last three weeks,
his volte-face has been thrilling.
He used to be so bitter, so ice-like;
No emotions behind his eyes whatsoever.
I thought this new behavior might be a farce,
and I was quickly distrustful
of how sincerely kind he was at first.
But he progresses ever onward,
being what I never imagined he could truly be.
He is the breath of fresh air,
the sun on my back,
the velvety grass beneath my feet,
that I had so desperately longed for him to be again.
The forbidden fruit that I can't resist,
but am never punished for indulging in;
for being something so pure,
one could never be punished.
- A lonely ghost
I have missed you.