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raw with love Nov 2015
(Yes, better than Harry Potter, get your pitchforks ready)

My first encounter with THG was approximately four years ago, when I had barely turned fourteen, did not consider myself bilingual and was romantically frustrated. Naturally, I made several mistakes at the time. First off, I read the series in translation, since I'm not a native English speaker, and missed out a huge chunk of the significance of the story. Then, as I said, I was romantically frustrated and thus paid such a monstrous amount of attention to the romance aspect of the story that I want to bitchslap myself. Finally, at fourteen, I was still ignorant and uneducated about so many things that I read the series, got hyped for perhaps six months or so, then forgot all about it, save for the occasional rewatch of the movies. In retrospect, this is probably one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made. Now, at the ripe old age of eighteen, a significantly better-read person, waaay more woke, as well as socially aware, I decided to finally read the series in the original and am finally able to put my thoughts together in a coherent, educated review of the series.

The Hunger Games has continuously been compared to a number of other books and series, occasionally put down as inferior and forgettable. In those past few years I managed to read a great part of the newly established young adult dystopian genre and am able to argue that A. The Hunger Games is undoubtedly universal and unrestricted to young adult audiences and that B. it is, without the slightest shade of uncertainty, the best series written in our generation.

While many people draw parallels between The Hunger Games and, say, Battle Royale, the similarities end with the first book, which, while spectacular in execution, seems unoriginal in its very idea. As the series unrolls, however, it is hardly possible to compare it to anything, save for, perhaps, Orwell's 1984. The social depiction and the severe criticism laid down in the very basis of the story are so brutally honest that it fails my understanding how the series was ever allowed to become this popular. What starts out as a story about a nightmarish post-Apocalyptic world works up to be revealed as a cleverly veiled portrayal of our own morally degraded and dilapidated society (if you're looking for proof, seek no further: as the series was turned into several blockbuster movies, public interest was primarily concerned with the supposed love triangle rather than the bitter truths concealed in the narrative). Class segregation, media manipulation, dysfunctional governments are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the realities that The Hunger Games so adroitly mimics. If I were to dissect, chapter by chapter, all three books, I'd probably find myself stiff with terror at the accuracy of the societal portrait drawn by Collins. I strongly advise those of you who haven't read the series between the lines to immediately do so because no matter how many attempts I make to point it out to you, you simply have to read the series with an alert sense of social justice to realize that it doesn't simply ring true, it shakes the ground with rock concert amplifiers true.

Other than the plot that unfolds into a civil war by the third book (the series deals so amazingly with trauma survival and with depicting the atrocities of war that I am still haunted by certain images), the characters of the story are what makes it all the more realistic. Though Hollywood has done a stunningly good job in masking the shocking reality of the fact that these are children - aged twelve through eighteen, innocent casualties paying for the adults' mistakes; children forced into prostitution, fake relationships, children forced into maneuvering through a world of corruption, media brain-washing and propaganda.

Consider Katniss. She is a person of color (olive-skinned, black-haired, gray -eyed, fight me if you will but she is not a white person), disabled (partially deaf, PTSD-sufferer, malnourished), falling somewhere in the gray spectrum both sexually and romantically. As far as representation goes, Katniss is one of the most diverse characters in literature, period. Consider Peeta, his prosthetic leg (which, together with Katniss's deafness, has been conveniently left out of the movies) and his mental trauma in the third book. Consider Annie's mental disability. Consider Beetie in his wheelchair. Consider all the people of color, as well as the fact that people in the Capitol seem to have neglected all sorts of gender stereotypes (e.g. all the men are wearing makeup). There is absolutely no doubt that the series is the most diverse piece of literature out there. Consider this: the typical roles are reversed and Peeta is the damsel in distress whereas Katniss does all the saving.

Furthermore, the alarming lack of religion (in a brutal society reliant on the slaughter of children God serves no purpose), as well as several other factors, such as the undisputed position of authority of President Snow, is suspiciously reminiscent of the already familiar model of a totalitarian society.

The Hunger Games, in other words, is revolutionary in its message, in its diversity, in the execution of its idea, in its universality. I mentioned Harry Potter in the subtitle. While this other series has played a vital role in the shaping of my character, it has gradually receded to the back line for several reasons, one of which is how problematic it actually is. This, though, is a problem for another day. (The Hunger Games is virtually unproblematic and while it may be argued that the LGBTQ society is underrepresented, a momentary counterargument is that *** has a role too insignificant in the general picture of the story to be necessary to be delved into this supposed problem). Where I was going with this is that, at the end of the day, Harry Potter, while largely enjoyed by adults and children alike, is a children's book and contains a moral code for children, it was devised to serve as a moral compass for the generation it was to bring up. The Hunger Games, on the other hand, requires you to already have a moral compass installed in order to understand its message. It is, as I already said, a straightforward critique of a dysfunctional society, aimed at those aware and intelligent enough to pick on it.

As for its aesthetic qualities, the series is written, ominously, in the present tense, tersely and concisely, yet at the same time in a particularly detailed and eloquent manner. It lacks the pretentious prose to which I am usually drawn, yet captivates precisely with the simplicity of its wording, which I believe is a deliberate choice, made so as to anchor the story to the mundane reality of the actual world that surrounds us.

That being said, I would like to sum up that The Hunger Games is, to my mind, perhaps the most successful portrayal of the world nowadays, a book series that should be read with an open mind and a keen sense of social awareness.
raw with love Mar 2014
you're not your hair:
you can cut it dye it curl it straighten it shave it bend it twist it;

you're not your face:
you can hide it under layers of make-up you can put on lenses you can change your face in a matter of minutes;

you're not your skin:
you can cut it draw on it bite it tear it;

you're not your body:
you can lose weight gain weight;

you're not your clothes:
strip them off;

never reduce
yourself
to
a colour
a number
an adjective
a noun

never reduce
yourself
to a simple
word

you are
the thoughts you have at 3 a.m.
the lame jokes you tell your friends
the art you create
the books you read
the pages you have dog-eared
the quotes you have highlighted
the coffee you never finished drinking
the movie you watch after midnight, wrapped in a blanket
the chocolate cake you ate that night with that girl
the slice of pizza you could've eaten but you gave to your best friend
the kiss that still burns on your lips
the cigarettes that sting in your lungs long after you smoked them
the dreams you dream
the worlds you build in your mind
the song that's stuck in your head
the moments you're in the shower
the iloveyous
the ikindaguessilikeyous
the icareforyous
the seeyoulaters
the words you say
the smiles you smile
the laughs you laugh
the loves you love
the hates you hate

you are
an entire universe:
you're stars
and planets
and galaxies
and asteroids
and comets

you are a cosmos
trapped in
a shell.

you are
a gazillion worlds
locked in
a human cage.

never think
of yourself
as of
anything
less.
4.9k · Mar 2015
Fragile Bones
raw with love Mar 2015
“As for Charles – he likes girls. If he’s drunk, I’ll do. But – just when I’ve managed to harden my heart, he’ll turn around and be so sweet. “
“You like him a lot, don’t you?”

The night crumbles to dust as I trace
every single crease, every nook, every edge of you.
I drink you in, you drink cheap wine:
you only kiss me with alcohol in your blood,
you cannot stomach me without
the drugs.
A pile of cigarette ash on the floor,
broken glass. Shattered ice cubes and
cigarette butts.
It’s a scene of decay; you and I
could only survive if you whispered
sweet nothings and I let you gut
me. You lead me on and I always
slip, and touch you and believe
this time will be the time you stay,
this time will be the time you remember last night
morning come,
this time will be the time
I
am
the
one.
It rains the first time and there’s a bottle
of scotch; we play cards; you’re drunk:
I strip you off; tonight you smile; tonight
you will not mind if I touch
your jaw
your lips
your waist
and below
and your heart
no – never your heart.
Then it’s a matter of time.
You always come when you need me and I
can never refuse to be the one
who lets your tongue
explore my mouth
if only drunk
if only for a while
if only for the night.
I’m there. I will do. For now.
I kiss
your lips
your throat
your neck
your collarbones
and down – way down – below
and your heart
no – never your hear.
You twist me round your little finger and I
would die and die and **** and die
a thousand times
to have you look at me and say
I’ll stay tonight*.
My Charles.
No – never mine.
Based on Tartt's The Secret History.
The lines before the ones that start with "no -" are supposed to be crossed out.
4.0k · Oct 2014
queen's justice
raw with love Oct 2014
when i told you
i was a queen
you knelt before me
sword out
and pledged your allegiance
to the ruler of your  heart
you called me your highness
and dared ask for a crown
i'll now burn your bridges
send knights chase you down
chain you in my dungeons
and dissect you one slice at a time
i'll feed you to my dragons

treason is a deadly crime
3.7k · Apr 2014
don't call me pretty
raw with love Apr 2014
don’t call me pretty
don’t call me sweet
i won’t be flattered –
it’s not what i need;
don’t call me beautiful
don’t call me hot
i won’t be flattered –
i know i’m not;
but then so what
it isn’t like I give a
****.
beautiful won’t draw the stars
upon the night sky,
pretty won’t write you a poem
twenty lines long,
slam and bitter-sweet,
beautiful won’t inspire
another soul to love me,
pretty won’t immortalise
my swift and shining mind,
beautiful won’t taste like
coffee and cigarettes
when i kiss you on the
mouth,
pretty won’t make you
laugh with a coarse voice
at 3 a.m.
under the stars,
beautiful won’t make you
stay awake till dawn
reciting frost, then plath
and then bukowski,
pretty won’t make you
crave for my
mysteriously gentle touch,
beautiful won’t make
my absence sting and
leave a burning scar,
pretty won’t feed you
with homemade crusty
cake glazed with chocolate
and raspberries,
beautiful won’t make your
body ache when you
wake up and don’t find me
in bed,
pretty won’t make your
head hurt with all the
existential questions
i ask before i’ve even started
to drink,
beautiful won’t cuddle you
under the sound of
heavy metal screams,
pretty won’t soothe you
when you need to cry,
beautiful won’t dance with you
with no music,
pretty won’t hold your hand
like i will though it’s
december and i have no
mittens,
beautiful won’t win
wars for you,
pretty won’t stay up all
night long to marathon
lord of the rings with you
and then maybe star wars
and then read some marvel,
and then make up
asoiaf theories,
beautiful will steal a glance,
but I will steal your mind.
hot might earn you a body,
with other words
you will enter my heart.
pretty might be enough
for a one-night stand,
but i can make you
be hopelessly,
tiredly,
desperately
in love.
dedicated to Lauren Wycoff for inspiring me.  go and read her stuff now, she's fantastic
raw with love Dec 2014
i bought a pack of cigarettes tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i sat on the stairs in the yard of the old house with its walls crumbling,
with its facade turned to dust.
the air was so cold it stung my fingers, frost licking my face,
turning my cheeks blood-red but nothing hurt
as much as you do.

i smoked a cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the smoke filled me up and i feared
it would leak out of all the holes you punched in me.
it didn't. i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like drowning.
like your mouth on my mouth, like your teeth on my neck.
i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like you
so i liked it.
who cares i almost died.

i smoked a second cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
nicotine ran in my veins,
blue rivers along my pale skin and it felt, it really felt
a lot like love. a lot like you. a lot like us.
galaxies scattered across my skin, poison running in my blood,
yes, it felt a lot like us.
i didn't choke this time, but i think you would have laughed
at the way i ******
on the cigarette ****.

i smoked a third cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i swallowed cancer like a drug and it stung
at the back of my throat, and it burned and it burned and it burned
as ash gathered at the burning end
and fell to the ground like snowflakes,
little flakes of ash on my sneakers
and it reminded me of your kisses a little, i didn't choke this time.
i laughed. a bitter laugh.
you hurt at the back of my mind as i put
the cigarette out and i thought about the way
you'd look at me, boldness in your eyes, hair a little all over
the place and your mouth
shaped in a little "o"
as you blew circles of smoke out.

i smoked a fourth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the cold stung but not as much as my lungs burnt and my brain burned
and you hurt.
i blew smoke out but never quite like you did,
and i thought it looked and was a little
ridiculous maybe
to burn the leaves of a plant wrapped in paper
and fill our fragile bodies with the exhausts
we breathe out smoke like broken steam engines,
ain't it funny, haha.
you'd laugh, harshly, you'd bite me, you were always
a little rough.

i smoked a fifth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
it's not half as venomous as you were, i decided.
i put it out.
cigarettes are so not worth the hype.
you were.
you are.
2.9k · May 2014
polyglot
raw with love May 2014
I know how to say
"I love you" in
English and French,
and Spanish and Italian,
and Russian and Bulgarian,
and Arabic and Dothraki
and High Valyrian,
and Klingon,
and in any other language
you ask,
I know how to
write "I love you"
in Gallifreyan and
Tengwar,
I know how to make up
a billion different poems
about my love for you.

But still, it won't make you
love me back. I somehow
was never enough for you.
You keep me awake every night
wondering why you left
and I think it's high time
I started looking up
how to say "I don't hate you",
"I've moved on", "I don't miss you"
and "I am okay" in all these
languages in which
"I love you" didn't matter.
raw with love Aug 2014
i am
nebula
an explosion of stardust
i am
a supernova
fear me
i am
universes
galaxies
asteroids
i am
a little cosmos
within me
if you don't dare
reach
for the stars
stay away from me
i'll swallow you
like a black hole
i am made out of
dark matter
don't you even dare
come closer
if you're not ready
to explore
uncharted
territory
2.6k · Jul 2015
Messages I Never Sent Pt.1
raw with love Jul 2015
To M.

See, I should have kissed you.

I should have kissed you when I had the chance to. Should have pulled you closer, stood on my tiptoes, my hand tightly clutching your neck, and kissed you full on the mouth. Should have run my fingers through your spiky hair, smiling as your arms closed around me.

I should have found you, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, and I should have kissed you, giving you a taste of the happiness in a box that you'd handed me so timidly.

Your voice still rings loud and clear in my head, I hear it when I read your messages, that distinctive accent, eyebrows raised, cheekbones moving. And that smile, so sly and cunning, your lips slightly upturned. I *should
have kissed those lips when I had the chance to do so. Then and there, among tears and sporadic, almost desperate hugs, I should have kissed you. When you held on to me for just a little longer, your hug tight, your hands running along my back, I should have traced your lips with mine. I should have sealed that promise with a kiss.


"You never see a person only once in a lifetime," you whispered in my ear, your breath tickling me. "That's a promise," I choked on tears, "You hear me, it's a promise."


I should have kissed you; instead, I hugged you once again as you held me tightly and rubbed my back. I should have just reached out. Fate or whatever mystical force there is ******* us up pretty badly. If only I'd met you earlier. If only I'd known you before I got mixed up with the wrong person. I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd done a lot of things differently. My heart drops in my stomach every time you say you miss me. Your voice will fade away. I won't be able to conjure up your face without looking at pictures, and all your familiar features will be blurred by time and memory. The ephemeral imprint of your skin against mine will soon be gone forever. My heart will grow cold.


The taste of tiramisu will linger, though. Always in the back of my mind, the unanswered question of what it would be like to taste it from your lips. Have tiramisu some time. I hope it tastes like me. You never see a person only once in a lifetime, but perhaps you only have one chance to kiss.

I should have kissed you.
Regret is bitter. "You are my favorite what if, you are my best I'll never know."
2.5k · Mar 2015
On love and relationships
raw with love Mar 2015
But at the end of the day, I don't want the one who will spin my head round, who will make my blood boil, whose kisses will feel like I'm on fire, whose touch will make the universe explode. No. I want the one who will be okay seeing me throw up after we've had a bit too much to drink; who will hold my hair and call me a loser the next morning, but will, nonetheless, leave two Tylenol on the nightstand. I want the one who won't mind taking care of me when I'm sick, who won't mind my coughing fits and my runny nose. I want the one who will be perfectly fine with running home in the rain after we've missed our bus; who will be content with wearing ugly sweaters in front of the telly, drinking hot chocolate and watching silly movies. I want the one who will cook for me and who won't mind my cooking. I want the one who will be perfectly comfortable with us walking around in our underwear and who will drink as much coffee as I do. I want the one who will lie in bed with our laptop while I'm reading a book and won't mind the silence. I want the one who will buy my parents silly Christmas gifts and someone whose mother I'll be friends with. I want the one who will laugh at my jokes when they're funny and will call me an idiot when they ****. I want the one who will beat me at computer games and who won't mind that I sing even though I **** at singing. I want the one who will open up to me and let me help them; who will listen to my worries but who will respect my personal space. I want the one who will call me silly nicknames and who will tell me they love me everyday. I want the one who will take pictures with me and will pin them on the fridge. All I crave is comfort and stability. Don't romanticise love: the only thing you'll ever need is a best friend who wants to sleep with you and spend the rest of your life with you.
I know I'm just 17 but that's all I really want.
2.2k · Feb 2015
It's all so very queer
raw with love Feb 2015
hey, you say
he smiles and you
light up
he throws his arm around you
and replies, hey, bud
you want to cry and trace his lips
and make him
mutter your name
while you have
your tongue in his mouth
you want to touch him,
trace the map of your heart
all over his skin
but he can't know
he won't know
if only he knew you'd be dead meat
with ****** carved on your skin

she grins at you
and loops her arm through yours
and shows you her bra
does this dress make me look fat
and you wish you could say
you're beautiful
and touch her back as you
slide the dress down her sides
but she chuckles and says
i think that boy is cute
why won't he ask me out
and you know
she can never know
she won't ever know
if you ever touch her
she'll push you away
yell, ew, a ****

you're oh so pretentious
you, such little poser
you've only ever been with guys
you don't know what it's like
to be with a lady
what a grand faker
you're so not special
shut the **** up

you're being ridiculous
don't you like ***
well you've never had it
find someone to put you in bed
I promise you'll like it
the best time you've ever had
now don't be a freak

here's something unheard
not in *** ed
and not at home
who sleeps with whom
is a business of their own
2.0k · Apr 2014
Hello, hello
raw with love Apr 2014
Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Can you see me cry?
Can you see the demons
reflected in my eyes?
Can you see the scars
inscribed on my skin?
Can you see through my mask,
so feeble, so terribly thin?
Can you see it peeling off,
can you see me rotting?

Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Are you afraid?
Are you scared of the
big bad scarred monster
on your doorstep?

My scars relinquishing in
sunlight,
the devils inside me
caught in a ****** war,
the pain that's decaying
my organs, my soul,
my body crumbling
like pastries to dust,
my tormented existence,
my struggle through life.
Gnawed at by self-hatred,
praised by self-harm,
thriving in blades,
awash with blood...

Can you see this?
Can you hear them?

Can you hear the voices
roaring in my head,
screaming, yelling,
howling
sweet little
"disgusting"s
"failure"s
"****"s
"good-for-nothing"s
"nobo­dy-needs-you"s
"ugly"s
"fat"s
"stupid"s
"pathetic"s
"you're better off dead"
?

Can you hear
the cry of my veins?
Can you hear my blood
begging for release?
Can you hear
my gut-wrenching
cries for help?
Can you hear my screams?

Can you see the figures
scrutinising me
deep inside my head?
Can you see the pain
bleeding down my
arms
and things?
Can you see me
ripping myself slowly
thread by ******* thread?

Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.

Can you recognise me?
Can you see yourself?

Don't stay, my sweet little girl,
don't stay,
run away,
my sweet little girl,
greetings from your
future self
on the path to decay.
1.8k · Apr 2014
four lines of heartbreak
raw with love Apr 2014
i loved you
and i love you still.
you never did,
you never will.
1.8k · Jul 2015
Fisherman's tales
raw with love Jul 2015
It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
I curl up in the back of a closet, wrapped in blankets
and the scent of salty water and seaweed crawls up my nostrils
until I'm choking;
it engulfs me, a cold embrace, the breeze piercing me
through clothes that somehow feel like a fisherman's net
twisted around me, leaving marks on my skin.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it is winter;
like driftwood washed upon the shore,
like sand sifting through my fragile fingers,
like an imminent sea storm, danger impending,
memories crush me.
Sunburnt skin, goosebumps and droplets of water;
bodies pressed, wounds left to heal
and scars that slowly fester.
There's something autumnal in summer,
gashes bleeding ink.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter:
remember, remember when we used to sit
under birches, lashes shiny with droplets
of dreams,
remember, remember, bicycles, children with eyes bright and green,
freckled faces, salty-tasting kisses,
scorching sun and summer winds.
Midnight storms, skies lightened, torn
by lightning bolts --
July is not the time for eulogies,
remember lazy afternoons, you, me, the boat,
regret always tastes as bitter
as children's lips just slightly touching
far away from coast.
It's mid-July but in my heart, it's winter;
the tide will wash away another fisherman's corpse;
remember all the tales of sirens?
You never told me Death came with hair of gold.
There's nothing quite so sad as being sad in summer.
It is July, and yet outside it snows.
1.8k · Jun 2014
sam d.
raw with love Jun 2014
if
                                                 i
         we
                  re
                                    
                                          to
                        
                           f
                            a
                              l­
                                l

  
                         ­    a                          a
                                    ­                                                      t
         ­                           p                                     ­             
                                                   ­                      r

                                 you'd always be there to catch me.
                            a safe place to land, a safe home to haunt,
                                       your arms are my temple,
                                          your shoulders my fort,
                                               my steady pillars,
                                                     my whole
                                                         world
                                                           ­ in
                                                             y
                                                             o
                                                             u
                                                              r­
                                                             b
                                                             o
                                                             n
                                                             e
                                                             s
1.7k · May 2014
nursery rhyme
raw with love May 2014
tic-toc
goes the clock
you set your eyes on her
and now you're lost

tic-toc
goes the clock
you talk to her
and drown in the pools
of molten gold
that are her eyes

tic-toc
goes the clock
you talk to her
until the sun is up
and her phone battery's flat

tic-toc
goes the clock
you hold her hand
and know you've got her

tic-toc
goes the clock
you hug her tight
and know she's lost

tic-toc
goes the clock
you kiss her with
your deceitful lips

tic-toc
goes the clock
she's all yours and
you possess her

tic-toc
goes the clock
you make her happy
and maybe for a while
you even care

tic-toc
goes the clock
she's truly lost,
she loves you

tic-toc
goes the clock
but you grew bored
and faked it

tic-toc
goes the clock
you left her
and you broke her

tic-toc
goes the clock*
and now even
nursery rhymes
are about you
you *******
him.
raw with love Apr 2014
I’ve always been the outsider.
The girl who dreams.
The girl who laughs too much
and cries too much.

But most importantly,
I've always been
the girl who reads.

I raised myself with books.
In words I found salvation,
in those rows and rows of
soldier-like words
I found my closest friends.

From books alone, I learned
about friendship and family,
and love, and tolerance,
equality and death.

Like a sponge, I absorbed those ideas
and words, and phrases,
and all I read about,
and when the time was ripe,
the sponge bled out
with all the words
it had taken in,
and its ink blood
covered myriad pages.

I am so young, just a kid, really,
and my life so far has been
just a pile of books I’ve read.
I want to change this,
to create a new pile –
of the books I’ve written,
of the worlds I've made.

Clumsy poetry and short stories,
and unfinished novels,
and the constant voice
making up stories and characters
in the back of my mind -
that's what I live for,
and the air I breathe.

I’m so young, just a kid, really,
but I know what I want from my life –
I want to write books and shape the lives
of other little kids who will pick up my
books, and read them, and learn about life.
1.6k · May 2014
Crush
raw with love May 2014
If there’s Heaven and there’s Hell,
show me where I belong.
And if my place is not in either,
help me burn them down.*

I.
I don’t know where we’re going or what we are
or who we are and I don’t know the right questions to
ask; and even if I knew I wouldn’t know the answers
and I wouldn’t know anyone who could actually provide
an explanation for why it is all like it is. I am insane
and maybe you too are and we stand on shores but  
my shore is not your shore and is there even water
on these shores and why am I drowning. I think
I’m underwater and maybe we all feel like we’re dying
or like we’re already dead. I just understand that
learning how to swim and how to breathe and how
to live are the things my parents did not teach me
and all I feel is salty air but my lungs are decrepit
and how do I take a breath when the air is full of poison –
the one you’re emitting and the one I’m emitting,
and aren’t we all just so toxic?
So I’m knee-deep into water but I cannot force
my lungs to work, and I’m waist-deep into water
but they still don’t work; and now my body is
feelingless and floating and I don’t know
how to live. Do you? Does any of us?
So we just let go there on the shore;
it’s sanity and it’s stability and it’s safety all gone.
I knew all the answers but then I grew up
and so did you.
We were metaphors and the world spun around
so now we are just malaphors and we’re ****** up.
How do I explain to you, to anyone that I am drowning
even when I can swim and that I am dead, my eyes
reflect the light; they do not shine, I have a pulse,
I breathe but I’m so not alive
and I am drowning ashore, I am away from the water
and still underneath waves that crush my fragile skeleton
and make me crumble to dust.
I used to be a metaphor but I’m a malaphor now
and I will burn that bridge when I get to it.
That is, if I haven’t yet drowned.

II.
I lie on the floor and boards are creaking and what is
wrong with me and with us and with everyone.
The dog is howling and there’s a silent cat but he’s
not chasing her and she is tired of chasing mice so she
just wants to die but the dog cannot bite and I keep lying
with snakes wrapped around my limbs and I am poison
and I ache. When did friendships become all about lies
and deceit and manipulation? When did I lose myself
in the world of masks? When did it all become about
sexsexsexSEX? Why is it all about who ***** whom
and why do we all want to die? When did we realise
that suicide is a way and how did we find out?
I hear noises and I drown in music and I scream
until my throat hurts and my lungs ache and I
keep thinking WHEN DID I DIE and why
is there no God, I need redemption and don’t we
all crave to be forgiven? I cut, you cut, we cut,
it’s not grammar, it’s life, we don’t do it for attention,
they all cut and we all cut, don’t we, with rusty little
blades ripping ourselves open, letting the pain flow
like red rivers on the floor and we think it’s okay
to carry our scars not like badges and medals of honour
but like shameful reminders of how useless and
worthless we are, and we cut hipbones and thighs
and we cut between ribs and we scratch and bleed
and drown in pure, unbound hatred that comes
straight from our vicious poisoned hearts
and we cut where it can’t be seen because just too many
questions that we’re not willing to face. And we all
write poems about how we want to slit out veins
open, how we want to slay our wrists and crumble and
diedieDIEDIEDE. Why do we want to die, why are we
the ****** up generation who thinks about ****** and solecisms
half of the time and death and virginity and self-hatred and
how our lives mean absolutely nothing?
When did we grow up and become so bitter
and when did our time in the bath become the time when
we want to drown and trains were fun once but now we
want to jump in front of one and trees are not where we
play but where we want to hang ourselves and we
want to jump from cliffs and all we want to do
is **** and die and die and ****, and we were kids
but now we’re not and we’re not adults so who are we?
We’re **** victims, we’re names crossed out, we’re
eulogies and pills and death notes and we want to be
over, why and when and how did the world
**** us up?
We’re caffeine-driven and we do drugs and we’re
all addicted to sadness and addicted to death and addicted to
hatred and we mostly hate us.
We starve ourselves until we can’t stand upright, we starve
until we can see the outlines of our cages and still think
it is not enough, or we eat and we purge and why did we
decide that we wanted to die?
Because we do. I used to be a metaphor
but I’m a malaphor nowand I will burn that bridge when I get to it.
That is, if I haven’t yet drowned.



III.
I want to hold your hand, just hold it and feel you with me
wrapped around and safe and home. I want to kiss your
lips and bite your neck and drown in your eyes,
I want us to **** and make sweet love and sing and
smoke and get drunk, I want us to roll on the floor
laughing and find ourselves on our backs with the wooden
boards underneath us and tears in our eyes, but from happiness
and not this constant sadness, I want love to mean something,
I want to be yours and you to be mine, regardless of gender,
regardless of age, love must be love.
I want us to eat ice cream and pizza and junk food
or healthy food or any food and not be judged and I
want us to live and to love and I want us to
look in the mirror and face our reflections and not
hate what we see, and this is it, this is us.
Do me do me do me, let me be your drug,
get high with me, get high on me, we’re greatness,
we’re power, we’re supreme. We can will it away,
we are who we wish to become, we rise and reign, we
shine and we are stars, we’re supernovas we bring down
kingdoms and we crown ourselves with thorns and twigs,
we’re rulers of ruins and ashes, we burn down temples, we
want to be the best but we think we’re the worst so we
just fake it, fake it all but we are all just galaxies with
potential that is not yet unleashed, we can burn bright if
we only learn how to, we need to learn how to live without
willing to die; we need to learn how to love ourselves first
before we love others and we need to stop hating
and we have scars that might never heal again but can’t we
just accept plain truths and bandage ourselves and move on?
But we some cigarettes and we breathe out the smoke or
we just keep it in our lungs until we burn and until we fall
apart and we’re just snowflakes that have turned to dust,
and we’re ashes that burn holes on the tips of others’
tongues, oh how I wish we could live without burning
scars, without causing pain, without withering away,
without crumbling, why can’t we, why do we all
so desperately want to die and drown and **** and die?
I used to be a metaphor but I’m a malaphor now
and I will burn that bridge when I get to it.
Oh how I wish I could love you and know you
would love me back but our world is so ****** up
and all we can ever do is leave gaping holes and
smoking wounds and salty tears and new ideas
how to die. Let’s change the world, or maybe not,
let’s just find meaning, or at least can we please
forever ever bring down Heaven and Hell
and learn to accept who we are. I used to be a metaphor
but I’m a malaphor now and I will burn that bridge when I get to it.
But then I’ll rebuild it and maybe this time
I will never ever drown.
And I will teach myself to swim and breathe
and live and love, I want to be a metaphor
one more simple and no longer lonely time.
i don't even know
1.6k · Mar 2015
writer's curse
raw with love Mar 2015
everyone i've written about
has left me.
so you must understand
why i will not immortalize you
with my words,
why i won't turn you
into a poem.

maybe this way
you'll stay.
1.4k · Nov 2015
Messages I Never Sent Pt.3
raw with love Nov 2015
To F.

You're not the first person I've kissed but you are the first person I want to spend the rest of my life kissing. And it scares me so. I've never been loved - just rejected, at all my attempts of loving, and ever since then I've been afraid, down to the bone, of commitment. Of opening up to someone, of feeling love, of letting myself be loved in return. I've been used and abused, and manipulated, and made fun of. I'm telling you all this so I can emphasize how big a gesture it is on my side to admit that I have feelings for you, that I am willing to make myself vulnerable to you, and to you only. I've been strong for so long that I crave being weak for a little while. So, I'm baring my chest here, and handing you a knife, hoping you won't carve my heart out like the rest of them, scrap whatever remnants of a heart there are from the hole in my ribcage. I've never been domestic, so you need to understand how big a deal it is that I crave your intimacy -- not just having ***, it's not about having ***. I crave waking up next to you, with your arm cuddled to my body, with your leg thrown over my legs: I crave exposing myself to you. Hearing something on the radio and thinking, *Oh, I need to remember this so I can tell him
. Seeing something in a window shop and buying it for you just because I know you'll like it. Your being able to order takeout for me from any place, without ever hesitating. Going jogging with you early in the morning, before I've had my coffee and you - your tea. Curling up on the couch watching stupid movies. Touching you just to reassure myself that I'm safe. This, to me, is more intimate than ***. This, to me, is scarier than ***. I used to think I was just lusting after you. Until you held my hand and I knew no one else's hand had ever or would ever fit better in mine. Until you pressed the side of your body to mine like you wanted to be closer to me that physics could allow and I knew I would never feel safer. Until you ran your fingers in circles over my bare knee and I knew this was the most intimate I'd ever felt with someone. Until I read my poetry and you looked at me like I'd put up all the stars in the sky. I am terrified. I am downright cold-blooded terrified of what I feel, and all this, this want, this need that creeps up my body, in every cell. It scares me more than death, more than oblivion, and what scares me even more is that you will take the knife and sink it into my chest down to the hilt, and won't even blink. That you will hurt me like all the rest, that you will leave, or make fun of me, or that you will never love me back. I don't know if love is the right word but I want to know your greatest fears, secrets and desires, and I want you to know mine. I also know I'll never send this to you because I've learned to be strong and to hide my feelings, and to tell myself that this, too, will pass. I'm a coward, because I'd rather be torn up by the pain of watching my love for you die a slow, tortured death than face rejection. I'd rather suffer from the unknown than from the dull, numb hurt of knowing you don't love me. And I will be alone, always. I don't have in me the bravery to face my greatest fear, so I'll let it eat me up. I'll keep myself warm on candlelight because I'm too afraid to light a fire.
1.3k · Nov 2015
A Goodbye Note to F.
raw with love Nov 2015
It’s 2:39 in the morning and
I’m sitting on my fold-in couch
with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
This is not a poem.
This is the realization that hits me
out of nowhere
so suddenly,
so unexpectedly,
in the midst of something so ordinary.
This is not a poem.
This is me, at 2:40 in the morning,
realizing that you were never good enough for me.
That I chose to put myself down, to ignore
my wishes and desires
so as to please you.
That I made up all these excuses for you,
that I came up with all these reasons to justify
why you were manipulating me,
that I kept telling myself you’d eventually
admit to having loved me all along.
This is not a poem.
I do not need a metaphor to tell you
that I realized I do not need you.
That I realized I never really did.
Right now, at 2:43 in the morning
I have never felt more alive
than in this very second
now that I am free of you.
This is not a poem.
This is a goodbye letter to the me that thought she loved you.
This is me, at 2:45 in the morning,
knowing my worth.
I am made of a billion universes
scattered inside my eyes,
I am a billion trembles,
I am nebulous,
and it’s 2:46 in the morning,
I’m sitting on my fold-in couch
with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth.
This is not a poem.
This is the realization that hits me
out of nowhere
so suddenly,
so unexpectedly,
in the midst of something so ordinary:
I am so much better than anything you’ll ever be.
1.3k · May 2014
9-9-9
raw with love May 2014
The future has razor-sharp
edges, swiftly cutting
bright red wet and ugly scars.
The past is a blunt knife,
dull and rusty
and I'm being stabbed
and stabbed
and stabbed.
I am stuck in the
present down on my knees
swimming in blood and saliva
with dry tears streaming
down my face
unable to catch a breath
choking on misery
nails dug deep into
my skin
and I am screaming
but no one can hear
and I want to rip
my trachea out and chop
my lungs and eat my heart out
and pull out all
those miles of intestines;
I want to flay my skin
and lay it out for you to
see my scars.
I'm a grotesque of
days long gone
of days that reign
of days that soon will be.
I am the monster you created,
you Dr. Frankensteins,
I am your masterpiece,
I am what you made me
but you won't leave me be.

I know it's called "the present",
but God help me, it's simply not a gift.
1.3k · Apr 2014
kiss & trust
raw with love Apr 2014
they told me i could find out
how you feel about me
by the way you kiss me.

you kissed with all your strength
yet at the same time gentle
you kissed with passion and with rage
you kissed me all-consuming.

i could've judged by those
so many kisses
that i meant the world to you
and that you ******* adored me

oh! was i such a fool!
it turns out you could kiss me
like i was everything
and at the same time i meant
**N O T H I N G
1.2k · Jan 2014
Untitled
raw with love Jan 2014
I'm not simple.

I am January - cold and grey and ugly.
I am February - short and dark and gloomy.
I am March - fierce and complicated and bipolar.
I am April - warm and sweet and full of colour.
I am May - sunny and blooming and frenzied.
I am June - the scent of summer and hope and the feeling of freedom.
I am July - the burning sun and the sand beneath your toes and the sun in your hair.
I am August - the sea waves crushing against you and the lazy shade underneath a tree and the grass tickling your feet.
I am September - pouring rain and gales and the fog creeping in.
I am October - red and brown and orange, the crunching of dry leaves and that the darkness that's falling.
I am November - distant and lonely and drowning.
I am December - the frost on the windows and the gentle snowflakes, and the dunes of snow, and the freezing coldness, I am December - decaying.

I am not simple. A little complicated, messy.
Can you take me?
1.2k · Aug 2015
runaways
raw with love Aug 2015
Let's steal my father's car
even though I don't have my license yet
even though you're not allowed to drive in this country.
Let's run away to a place
where your parents aren't fighting
where your mother is healthy
where my family isn't toxic
where I'm not burdened with crushing responsibilities.
Let's roam endlessly under the stars
with only the moon to keep us company;
let's escape to a place
where the cops won't pull us over
where only you and I will matter;
let's escape to a time
when you and I can happen.
Let's drive away to a place
where our laughter will resonate
for miles around;
where your face will bathe in starlight;
where we can be the only lovers left alive in the galaxy;
where your soft lips can touch mine again;
where your fingers can draw patterns all over my skin
with invisible paint;
where we can fight until we make out:
your lips
my hips
your hands
my hands;
let's run away to a place
where nothing else matters;
to a time
when we can forget about the world.
Let's escape and paint the world anew
in screaming color,
in bright lights,
in loud sounds;
let's leave all fears behind
because you've been hurt
and I've been hurt
but I've had enough of being wary,
I've had enough of guarding myself.

Let's steal my father's car
and run away together
to a time and place
when and where together exists.

I'm sick and tired of this pride,
Of building walls around us,
I don't believe in
amori vincit omnia
but maybe I can warm your heart up
and you can stitch my scars up
and maybe this will be enough.
1.1k · Nov 2013
destruction
raw with love Nov 2013
The world is burning.
The sky is falling.
Everything's crashing.
Fire and blood,
and destruction and
pain.

But all I know
is your hand in mine,
warm and sweaty,
your rough skin brushing against
mine,
your fingers filling
the spaces between mine,
and those little
squeezes that you give me,
hard and
reassuring.

You will never
let me go,
and as long as I
know this,
I don't care
whether everything
is falling apart.

Because we aren't.
And we stand tall
as everything
turns into
nothing.
1.1k · Apr 2014
wishful
raw with love Apr 2014
If I walked up to you and
asked if you were happy
and you said no
and I asked you
what would make you happy
again
would you reply
us?

but I guess
shooting stars were made
for better wishes
than the fixing
of my shattered
heart.
1.1k · May 2014
metaphysical
raw with love May 2014
i was a spark.
you turned me into fire
but since you left me
i am ash.
1.1k · Feb 2015
w o n d e r l a n d
raw with love Feb 2015
the clock is ticking off  one painful thousandth of a second at a time
i feel like alice chasing the rabbit
except you are the hole i'm falling through
if only time could stop
if only i could drop
the needle that you are
my drug
if only indulging
in hallucinogenic substances
would make it stop
the pain of you
the pain that's you
if only i could drop
the clock
and break it.
stupid alice, it's not a rabbit you're chasing
it's a maggot
and it's eating you
i
n
s
i
d
e
out
1.1k · Oct 2014
A letter
raw with love Oct 2014
Hello, my dearest, my loveliest.
I haven't met you just yet - at least not physically, even though I have seen you many times in my future. In fact, I think I'm in love with you already, and it will be really awkward when I meet you, because when I finally do, I will know, in my very heart of hearts that it is YOU. I will remember what I've already seen, and it will feel right to touch you, to look at you. Just hearing your laughter will make me whole. And I will know it's you.
You will know exactly what kind of coffee I want from Starbucks - you won't forget that I prefer soy milk, you'll know exactly how much sugar (brown!) I take, you'll know what name I want written on the cup - and I won't have to tell you. You won't just let me wear your clothes - you'll hide mine, so that I have no other choice but put your shirt on. You'll know how I like my tea - because that's how you like it too. You'll make waffles for breakfast, and I will frown at you for trying to make me fat, and you'll stuff my mouth with waffles to shut me up. When our little flat needs cleaning, you'll turn the volume up, and sing Queen's I want to break free as you vacuum and I wipe the dust. We'll take turns pushing each other in the cart until they throw us out of the supermarket. You'll order pizza (vegetarian, even though you're not one) and download the new Doctor Who episode when I work late, and come home tired and starved. You'll scold me for smoking and for drinking too much coffee, but will secretly make sure there's always instant coffee in the cupboard and a blanket on the balcony for my midnight smokes. You'll kiss my forehead and make me soup and take my textbooks away when I'm overdoing it. You'll teach me how to eat Chinese with chopsticks and you'll order foreign cuisine and eat from the takeaway boxes when you know we're both too lazy to do the dishes. And when we do do the dishes, we'll end up wet and covered in foam every time, because at the end of the day, we're both three-year-olds. You'll fall asleep on my belly as I read The Lord of the Rings aloud to you, and you'll have Harry Potter marathons with me when my exams are over. You'll always beat me at video games and try to spoil me the new comic book issue I haven't had time to read yet, and every time I'm cross with you, you'll start humming The Rains of Castamere, and you'll hang Targaryen banners on our walls when you're trying to please me. And when we feel like it, we'll have karaoke nights, and even though we both can't sing, we'll scream at the top of our lungs until the neighbours come knocking at the door. We'll go travelling and you'll always let me drive, and you'll never get tired of taking pictures of and with me. When the time comes, you'll propose with the One ring, like I've always wanted to. Even my parents will like you, surprisingly. We'll have our catchphrase and our inside jokes, and we'll understand each other with a mere look. You'll like what I write, but will always give me reasons why you like it, so that I always know you're not being biased. You'll find faults, too, and will let me know, and that's how I'll know it's you. We will watch singalong versions of Camp Rock and High School Musical, and sing along we will. And we'll tickle each other breathless, and we'll have surprise pillow fights. We'll always spend Christmas alone, eating takeaway and drinking hot chocolate and we'll have Weasley-style Christmas sweaters. We'll have a Doctor Who themed wedding, like we've both always wanted to. You won't mind me rumbling random unrelated history facts and ranting about biological inaccuracies in books and movies, and you'll join me in my social justice rants.We'll **** wherever - on the floor, on the table, on the couch, in the bathroom, sometimes even on the bed. You'll always take the blanket, and I'll hate it. You'll hate my eggplant lasagna and the way I always kick my shoes off. I'll hate your annoying habit of never ******* the toothpaste top, and always leaving the lights on. But those are things we can live with.
I don't know how you look or what your talent is, or how old your are, or how big your family is. I don't know where you grew up, I don't know you yet, I don't know anything about you. But I know I'll love you to bits, and so will you, and I can't wait to meet you, my loveliest.
Yours always.
1.0k · Jul 2014
a poet in love
raw with love Jul 2014
I could write about your eyes,
your smile, your laugh,
your voice, your face,
your scent, etc., etc..
I could go on for days and days,
about your nose, your hands,
your hair, your chest.
Metaphor after metaphor
I could create
a thousand words about the way
you move, you kiss, you hold my hand...
I could.
I could.
I won't.
I'll write instead
about your brain,
about the way you make me feel,
the way you talk about the stuff you like,
the way you think,
or I could just reduce it
to those simple words
dopamine
serotonin
oxytocin

In general,
you leave me out of breath.
1.0k · May 2015
SINister
raw with love May 2015
Светлината се пречупва в очите ти като във фасети на диамант,
ръцете ти пробягват по тялото ми болезнено нежно с хирурическа точност и остро
като бръснач --
и кълна се, кълна се, че всяка клетка в мен
превръща се в прах - като натрошено стъкло
като лед
като брокат (от кутийката в ръцете на тригодишно на букли)
разпилявам се разпръсвам се --
прашинка светлина на върха на пръстите ти
(аз съм Кай и ти се ледът в окото ми).
Всяко дихание си минор е и
разпилявам се
разпилявам се в ръцете ти
топла
увивам се като змии около китките ти
(Ах, колко езическо! въздишаш)
и пламвам.
Има нещо за змии и ябълки, което може би
трябва да помня --
смееш се и облизваш сока от брадичката ми
нищо греховно
            порочно
         и плътско
не ти е чуждо. Имам мастило
                                        във вените и искам
да го разлея по теб и да пиша
с пръсти като пера
всяка
премълчана
дума --

разпилявам се --
леда между зъбите хрущи хрущи троши се като кости
и месестата част на ябълката плът е --
разбивам се на хиляди стохилядни секунди безвремие докосването ти носи
играят сенки по стените
и (не)докосват се и тръпнат --
Флуорсцентно разливаш се, сияйно
и безгласно устните ти шъпнат
и трескаво
                            забиват се, разкъсват
           вени
           капиляри
           артерии
Безкрайността е просто дума  -
                                                проблясваш рубинено с цвета
                                                на устните ми,
                                                в небето ми си Сириус
и с пръсти проследяваш всичките галактики
на млечната ми кожа.

Проблясваш -- разпилявам се -- угасваш.
                             Фигмент на светлината
                                                                  и
                                                                     игра
                                                                              на
                                                                                   думи.
1.0k · Aug 2015
My Mom Never Told Me
raw with love Aug 2015
The first time I couldn't get out of bed, I shook so hard I feared my bones would shatter.
My mum never taught me how to deal with this excruciating emptiness inside me,
she never told me one day I could wake up and feel
like nothing in my life would ever matter.
She never told me there could be days and nights that pass by
in the blink of an eye
days and nights when I lie on my bed
and force myself to breathe --
because even breathing feels like a tedious chore.
She never told me I might wake up some day
and feel so tired, so tired that no amount of sleep
would ever make me un-tired again.
She never told me
I might sit on the bathroom floor some night
and feel the water run over me
feel it seep into my bones
and I might just sit there, for hours on end
until the boiling hot water that could leave my skin blistered
went ice cold and made me shiver --
She never told me that
I might sink nails and blades deep into my flesh
like voracious beasts because
it might take the pain away somehow.
She never  told me that
I might stay awake trying to lull myself
every
single night
while voices in my head
churned and churned and churned
that I was useless, that no one would ever love me, that I was incapable of being loved.
She never told me that my bones
would feel so feeble, fragile, that I would always, always feel
so cold.
She never told me
that I would sprawl myself on the bed, eyes wide open,
stinging
and I would wonder why nothing at all
mattered to me.
She never told me
that I would end up fearing the blinding daylight sneaking in through the curtains
because it means another day
of apathetic existence.
She never told me
that I would feel like a graveyard,
and she never told me that
a day might come when I look in the mirror
and see a ghost.
She never warned me
that the world might turn gray, she never
ever
ever
warned me
that panic would sometimes sweep me off my feet like a tidal wave
and I would lie on the floor/in a hole in the ground/on a bed of nails
and struggle for breath
and force my heart to keep beating --
for what I do not know,
because she never told me
that a day might come when nothing in the world would have a meaning.
She never told me
I would walk past snowdrifts and wish for peace
and crave to lie in one and let the snow cover me
until my lips were blue
and my skin was blue
and my eyes were cold
and I was finally as blue on the outside as on the inside.
That I would want to die
simply because there was nothing to keep me living.
That I would stuff myself with pills
so I could fall asleep at last.
She never told me.
She never warned me.
So when I went to her with my wrists ripped open and ragged
my hands warm and sanguine with my own blood,
she told me
We can get through this like family.
I don't know what family is, mom.
I only know what it's like to shake like a leaf from the chill, down to your very bones, when outside it's summer.
I only know what it's like to paint a porcelain smile on my porcelain face and feign interest
because just like porcelain I will shatter.
I only know what it's like to forcefully drag myself in the shower,
to forcefully wipe my chin from the *****,
to scratch slurs on my arms,
or else, to be ecstatic.
I don't know what family is, mom, because I've always pretended.
I don't know what family is, mom, because I'm made out of plastic.
I don't know what family is, mom. Dead girls don't have families.
987 · Apr 2014
reasons
raw with love Apr 2014
i think about the girls
in my class;
the one we have
an inside joke with,
tho we have nothing
else in common;
the one who plucks
my eyebrows
and asks me for
advice and
help with homework;
the one who thinks
i'm a nice person;
the one to whom
no one else is nice;
the one who likes
to hug me all the time
and calls me a friend;
the one who adores
chanel and likes
to talk to me
sometimes and sits
next to me in chem class;
the one i used to be friends
with but we fell out
though we still talk sometimes.
i think about
the other girls
from the golden five;
the two who are
inseparable and
nice to me and
understand me somehow;
the one who
shares my fandoms
and i can vaguely call
an actual friend;
the one i grew up
with who drools
over tom hiddleston
and sherlock and
books with me.
i think about
my literature teacher
who told me
she loves me
and about my
english teacher
who hugs me when
she's proud of me.
i think about
all the other teachers
who call me
exceptional.
i think about
the boy who used
to be my best friend
for two years
but we drifted apart
and yet he'd still
call me if he needed someone.
ithink about
the girl i stalk and
whom i send sweet messages to.
i think about
T. whom i love dearly
and V. whom i love dearly
and N. whom i love dearly
and M. whom i love dearly.
i think about my
sun and stars
who breathes for me,
my knight,
my heart.
i think about
the boy i love
and how even though
he said goodbye
he's "not indifferent"
(and about a promise
i made),
and about his mother
who adores me.

i think about my
mother who loves me the most
about my father
who calls me
princess
about my brother
who pulls my hair.
about my grandparents
and aunt and cousin,
about my mother's
best friends.

and then
i ask myself
"if all these people
are going to cry
if i happen to die,
if all these people
will lose sleep
and scream into
their pillows at night
and ask themselves why,
what does it matter
that i
don't
love
myself?"
982 · Apr 2014
beep 10w
raw with love Apr 2014
in the end,
we're all
reduced
to
                                                                                
                                                                           *"time of death"
975 · May 2014
epitome of self-destruction
raw with love May 2014
Selflessness and broken hearts
Alone and crying in the dark
Vast spaces of skin shouting to be cut
Empty holes where once there was a heart and there were lungs
Mourning a soul that once was alive
E**mbrace the corpse you left to rot
969 · May 2014
angels & demons
raw with love May 2014
The angels gathered
at dusk
when the sky was clear
and the wind was silent.
One was stick thin
with ribs protruding,
piercing the feeble
crumbling skin
and the angel was
starving, with
stomach growling
but the angel
wouldn't eat.
The second angel
had a fake smile
plastered,
so fake that its
mouth (decaying
with acid)
looked grotesque
and the angel
looked tormented
because it had
spent the past hour
on its knees
in a bathroom
emptying its
stomach
but it still thought
its smile was
convincing.
The third angel
had long
thin scars
bleeding red
all over its arms
but it smiled
its brightest smile,
chin up,
eyes bright
(but it secretly screamed
at itself late at night).

And many more
angels came,
all of them transparent,
with skin like
parchment
and eyes hollow,
eye sockets painfully
dug into their skulls,
with blue-purple
half-moons under
eyes losing their spark,
with crumbling,
burning smiles
that stung with
insincerity
and pure
venomous self-hatred,
and the angels dared not
face each other
and cut their own wings
feather by feather
and refused to believe
that they had not fallen.
But they hadn't, truly.
They had simply jumped.
964 · Apr 2014
anatomy
raw with love Apr 2014
why do we call it heartbreak
when it has nothing to do
with that useless pump
and everything to do
with your lungs being squeezed
by a stone cold hand
with murderous fingers
to the point where you
cannot breathe
and you feel like you're
drowning
when there's no water around;
and everything to do with
wanting to rip yourself
open
and throw all your
guts up?
why do we call it
heartbreak
if the
heart is not
alive?
958 · Mar 2014
interstellar
raw with love Mar 2014
every time
you touched me
it meant the world
to me.
interstellar explosions
showers of stardust
the milky way on
my skin
traced by your fingers
and lips
galaxies of emotion
so cosmic
so out of this world

i don't know how to live with the fact
that your hands were all over me
and for you
it would've made no difference
had it been somebody else

or should i say some body else
952 · May 2014
you (15w)
raw with love May 2014
i want to scream
"come back to me"
until i have no lungs
to breathe
940 · Mar 2016
enough
raw with love Mar 2016
we lay on our backs smoking cigarettes
the summer sky full of stars right above us
and i wanted to kiss her *****-tainted lips
and trace the curves of her face
of her collarbones
to lie between her hips
and taste her
i reached for her hand
fingertips away from hers
and she held it
and it was enough.

we sat on my bed
her head in my lap
and i braided her hair
her warm laughter spilling out
her budding lips, rolling off
her sweet tongue
and she played with the hem
of my skirt
i wanted to lean down
and press my mouth to hers
and make her mine
i pressed my lips
to her forehead
she beamed
and i thought
it might be enough.

we sat on the swings in the park
the wind played with her hair
her tiny feet in mary janes
scraped the dirt
and her arms wrapped around
the chain of the swing
i wanted to grab her face
to bruise her
to kiss her hard and
angry
to leave her
breathless
i pushed the swing
she squealed and my name
was on her lips
and it was
quite enough.

she cried in my bath
her cheeks mascara stained
her hair sticking to her face
wet
her words slurred
mouth delirious
she shrieked and sobbed
and i held her body
close to mine
pressed my lips
to the top of her head
as she screamed
and it would
never be enough.

we danced in my backyard
barefoot on the grass
her sundress swirled around
her knees
her sunburnt skin hot
and rough and
salty
we drank strawberry daiquiris
she said, "tell me what heartbreak tastes like"
i told her
i loved her
i told her
i wanted to make her mine
i wanted to show her the stars
i wanted
to be enough
i wasn't enough
she kissed my cheek and left
heartbreak tastes like her.
939 · Jun 2014
p.
raw with love Jun 2014
p.
I was lost at sea.
You crushed against me like a wave.
You left me breathless.
Revived me with your lips.
You got me on your ship
and taught me how to sail,
my captain.
raw with love May 2014
i dream of you
and i am thine
but when i wake up
you're never mine

*

the next time you
travel by plane
and you look at the
person beside you,
remember my sweaty
palm clenching yours
and my nervous squeezes
and how I kissed you
a thousand miles above
the water
among clouds
and how i slept on your
shoulder in the bus
afterwards
and ask yourself
if another
will walk into the
duty free and put on
expensive makeup
that she can't afford
and then kiss you
with blood-red
a-hundred-bucks
chanel lips.

you're not mine
but i'm not thine either
and it is your loss,
honey.
929 · Apr 2014
superhuman (not)
raw with love Apr 2014
they sometimes ask
what superpowers
I would like to have

I'd like to be invisible
and to travel in time
and to read minds

so that I could
go back
and know what
you thought

every time you
kissed me
when you didn't mean it
this is not so much a poem as a way to pour my pain and anger out
921 · Apr 2014
what's left behind
raw with love Apr 2014
you left behind plane tickets
in my wallet
because when we were on
that plane
we were one
and like a wife
I kept your belongings.
you left behind train tickets
all over my room
in my purse
and in cupboards
to awake memories
whenever I find them.
you left behind
a Walkman,
a pair of earphones.
a bracelet.
a book.
gifts from your mum.
a bunch of photos.

I left behind
pieces of paper
with my heart
laid out on them
naked and
entirely yours.
I left behind
a watch.
a bracelet.
My scent on your
red sweater.
A bunch of photos.

I wonder if you deleted
all our pictures.
I wonder if you threw
away my letters
like you deleted me
like you threw my
love away.
902 · Apr 2014
of dreams and men
raw with love Apr 2014
while others dream of
getting an education
finding a job
getting a husband
buying a house
choosing curtains
washing sheets
doing chores
and shopping groceries for the week at the local supermarket
going out with the girls for a night out at some nice pub
having a baby
changing diapers
teaching your kid to talk and read
living the dream
cooking pies for pastry contests
growing old and becoming
a nanny
playing bingo in the local club
and driving a nice car
and not having troublesome teenagers
and dying peacefully
and having a fairly nice funeral
and a nice piece of land in the local cemetery,
I dream of
staying up until 4 a.m.
the only light coming from my
laptop screen
killing characters while pressing
keyboard buttons
drinking wine
and smoking rolled
cigarettes
in a cramped apartment
in some unknown city
a room
stuffed with art
and scattered manuscripts
all over the floor
caffeine nights
and starving my body
but feeding my mind
and freeing my soul
I don't dream of getting married
but of getting my characters together and
then drifting them apart
I don't dream of having children
but of writing children who
grab the opportunity and live
a fascinating life
I don't dream of living
I dream of creating lives
and deaths
and dreams
and love
I don't dream of dying an old lady
I dream of immortalising myself
in creating fictional lives
900 · Apr 2014
lacrimosa
raw with love Apr 2014
this one is for you
little soul.
this one is for you
broken heart.
this one's for the person
who cries late at night.

you're not
alone.
and it's not over
yet.

stay strong.
go on.

the blade is not
the answer.

stay strong.
move on.

tomorrow
will be
better.
865 · Sep 2013
I'd never tell you
raw with love Sep 2013
I'd never tell you
that
I love the way you
hold me
(but I do).

I'd never tell you
that
your lips are imprinted
on mine.
(but they are).

I'd never tell you
that
when we lie in my bed
cuddled up
and the lazy sun rays caress
us
I try to match my
breathing with yours
(but I do).

I'd never tell you
that
I simply love
the way you absentmindedly
caress my arm
or leg
or shoulder
(but I do).

I'd never tell you
that
I love feeling
you heartbeat
because it's beautiful
to me
(but I do).

I'd never tell you
that
I sometimes wake up
at three in the morning
and need you
(but I do).

All I tell you
is
my messed up thoughts
and how broken I am
(and that you fixed me).

I'd never tell you
that
I love you
(but I do).
raw with love Apr 2014
they ask me
why i read.

they ask about
the books in
my room.

well here it goes:
i ripped my heart
out of my rib cage
and cell by cell
i tore it apart.

i ripped my soul
out of
wherever the **** it was
and thread by thread
i tore it apart.

and then
i opened all my
books
and between
each page
i carefully
tucked
a cell
or
a thread

and now
my heart
and soul
are safe
inside
the stories
other people
had to tell.
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