Strokes on the page,
Wrists moving fluidly as it spreads and leaks across the surface.
You try so hard to erase it,
But we're not living in reality.
Your ink is permanent.
You don't have one of those fancy pens.
It doesn't erase like a pencil.
If it did, what would be the significance?
Pen is made to stain.
We've both been imprinted with the blemish from a pen.
Your pen leaks,
Not just on your page.
Sure, tear the pages,
Inflict any form of destruction,
But the ink will remain stained on the page.
There will always be existing evidence of you.
Of the way you so flawlessly allow your words to spill from your mouth to the page.
Of the way you inhale tense air and exhale a sense of tranquility.
Of the way your intensely blue eyes explore the progressional evolution of the materialistic world.
It will all be forever written on the page.
I know you didn't want this for yourself,
Nobody in their right mind ever would.
Maybe you didn't ever want me either,
But change in either extreme is inevitable.
I am not leaving,
No matter how hard you push me away.
I will stay to read every single word you expose to the page,
Even if it gnaws at my heart to be chewed raw.
You can try and hide your pages,
But I'll just read from your eyes.
I can see your hurt.
I can feel your hurt.
It makes me hurt.
It makes me write,
In hopes that my ink will influence the tides from which you view the world.
Please don't stop writing,
I want to keep reading.
Please don't try to erase the disfigurement from your work,
It's my favorite part.
Please find the sublimity in each sentence,
I see it, even if you don't.
Please don't burn the pages,
I think I might burn with them.
My dentist sees
ink on an otherwise clean tooth.
Tarnished and impure.
Something to be removed and I
Regret the sugar soda that put it there.
I touch my cheek, my lips and chin.
But I don’t feel a thing.
I’m numb, all I feel is buzzing, no pain, only discomfort.
Drills of all sizes have their own vibrations.
Scratching against my clavicle, the artist’s hand is steady.
My chest rises, falls, with laughter and grimaces.
My father sees
Ink on an otherwise clean clavicle.
Stained and immoral
Something to be removed, as if I will ever
Regret the rebellion that put it there.
Fingers dance across raised skin,
my body, a journal, my soul’s true home.
I was a grieving broken girl
begging you to love me.
Heart wrapped up in barb wire,
hands covered in blood,
heart buried beneath the ground.
I was broken.
The pain of losing my father
bred depression in me.
I craved any form of love
with the need to replace
what I had lost.
I wish I knew back then
that some boy sliding
in and out of me
would never amount
to the love of my father.
I was begging for you
to find some life in me.
But, I died the moment my father’s heart stopped.
How selfish of me to ask
for you to love and care
for what is dead.
How do you grieve for someone you’ve never loved.
I was a grieving broken girl
begging you to love me,
and so you did the best that you could.
There was no guidelines or handbook that came with loving you.
There was no one to stop me at the traffic light and warn me about the dangerous path ahead of me, there was nothing but me and you.
And you had me wrapped so tightly around your finger, that even if someone gave me a warning about you, I would become so angry to believe that they were trying to stop my happiness.
You had my mind so clouded that every single time you did some fucked up evil and hurtful shit I would cry but still end up in your bed by the end of the night.
I found myself apologising and asking you to stay with me when it should have been the other way around.
Cause I’ve never done you wrong but while I was holding you down. You were pushing me over the cliff, bringing me closer to the edge with these sweet words that was supposed to caress my heart but only ever ended up breaking it so badly that my whole mentality is now fucked up.
I look at men and I want to hurt them as much as you’ve hurt me. I can’t think about ways to heal because healing to me is vengeance. Healing to me is making men lust after me, to lure them in knowing we would be nothing more than friends. Healing to me is fucking you over by jumping into bed with someone else. But what does that make me?
I have no ways to get over this, to get over you, because really what I want to do is reach into your chest and just rip your heart out and I want to fucking watch as the life drains from you.
But I’m better than that, and I’m better than you. And what doesn’t cost you your life will make you live to see a better day.
And one day I will thank you whole heartedly for breaking my heart.
You’re hurting, and you wonder
why time hasn’t done much healing for you.
You wonder why his voice still move mountains,
and rivers inside of you..
He’s like that leech that you just cannot rid yourself of.
He is that bad stain that you carry with you everywhere;
letting the world know that you should be identified
by the heartbreak he’s invested in you.
Baby, how do you expect to heal
when you allow that man to linger in and out of your life?
He’s not in your bed but he is in your head.
Manipulating and pulling your strings
like his personal little puppet, and you allow him to;
thinking that it’s better to have him this way
than to not have him at all.
and child the most terrifying
thing about love
is that there’s always one person
that loves more.
one lover will swim in shallow waters,
while the other drowns in oceans
with ice and currents
that do nothing but pull you deeper and deeper.
and that person always becomes
the doormat for their significant other,
you get so used to mistreatment,
broken promises and betrayal
that you don’t even flinch
when more truth come to life.
‘’he’s been unfaithful again.’’
you will want to run and hide,
beg the lord to just take these feelings away
but the minute his hands touch your hips,
it all goes away like a distant memory
that you were forced to forget.
you get down on praying knees and ask god,
how can the devil be someone so beautiful?
the most traumatic thing about being
the one that loves more
is that even when you find solid proof
that this man has been unfaithful
you will never pack your bags to leave,
you might cry, you might make a fuss
but at the end of that,
you will dry your tears
and get up to cook his favourite meal.
even when he calls you her name by accident
you pretend not to hear,
you forgive him so many times
that you almost forget
to let him fight for you.
you’re supposed to be his wife, girlfriend,
but you’re nothing but a part time lover.
but you convince yourself that it’s okay
if you get to wake up next to him,
and not alone in tears soaked sheets.
For every tree unborn
For every stone unturned
For every page in every book
In every bindery which will burn
Quietly in the fires of industry
There is death
And there is time
There is life
And there is change
And there's also the light between the leaves which fades
Until it is out of sight
And consumed by this
The lack of brightness within night
For just as acorn stems to tree
So also you will see your growth
As tall as ever it was meant to be
So you need not worry about such things
Because the ink is dry
The life is lived
And the only constancy is change
Take it from someone
that’s done the whole ‘waiting around’ thing.
It’s not worth it.
If someone isn’t sure how they feel about you.
Do yourself a favour and leave.
Don’t try to show them that
you are whats best for them—
they will never know whats best for them.
You cannot get a blind person to see
or an ignorant person to understand
or a confused person to love you.
That’s just the way it is.
You can give a person the world
and they will still crave the sun.
You can give a person everything you own,
and they will ask for the one thing
you don’t have.