i know
i make people look prettier behind my eyes
i say i'm no good at painting, but the picture's always beautiful within my mind
there's a line between these realms i like to say distorts things
and the images procreated are built like the story of a man who saved the world
he rescued coats and sweaters and nuns and cows and little me when i fractured my elbow on a regular school day, hospital visits fast becoming a source of adventure
he appeared out of thin air, magic, like that trick where i have to guess if he's furious or pretending to be
he would tickle my soul, bringing fountains of laughter, water like tears in a quiet corner between a wardrobe and the wall, lights out, hiding
he gave the loveliest hugs and the greatest tasting dairy milk bubbly's on sunday's back from belfast with me puppy-like demanding his affection and time
he promised horses and swimming pools and freedom of choice,
and he promised to be honest,
broke my heart a few times
you know
that you delight in the nature of things that have the potential to be harmful, people who you convince yourself are exactly the way you see them through the windows of your rose-coloured, thorn-bleeding eyes
i fear
that the history of everything keeps you reading one book a thousand times and you can never move on from anything or anyone
Sylvia Plath wrote one novel in her lifetime, a semi-autobiographical little book that held the most truth mixed in with fiction, probably being the reason why it feels so much more real than any completely fictional or nonfictional thing. I think that if i write a book, i might have to add so much of myself in the book to make it tangible and vivid enough to create the desired effect of being real enough, while not being about me in my phtsical life. I think I'd write my own version of The Bell Jar. It's scary how much I can relate to Sylvia Plath, fully knowing a genius like herself still took her own life- casually so, at the end. So here is a snippet of something that isn't a poem, or a book. and poetic prose sounds sort of pitifully like an aesthetic piece of writing, which this also couldn't be.