let me be happy again.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things

for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis

(e. e. cummings)

Please note that there may be triggering content on this blog.

Do not wait for me.

Wait for the one who knows her life like
the route she takes every day, skipping
back to a home with wide open arms.

Wait for the one who looks like she has
arrived from Wonderland, eyes bright with
the prospect of hope and fresh love, smelling
like flowers and laughing like rain.

Wait for the one who knows how to dance,
knows how to take you by the hands and pull
you into another world. God knows you need
relief at times, so don’t wait for the girl who’ll
give you grief.

Wait for the one who doesn’t hide behind closed
doors, doing god knows what with her soul.
There are beautiful tragedies that don’t involve
intentional self-destruction; there are stories
worth living for, people worth crying for

Wait for them.
Wait for that.

– Wait (x)

love prose sad poetry spilled ink

“I don’t know.
Some nights I still feel like I am fighting the
same wars
like every time I win
I am plucked away like the little marker in
google maps and planted at the beginning.
I don’t know.
Sometimes I cry just to see if I am
still alive
because I seem to know how to wrap
my body around every letter in the word
“desensitized”
like it has become so close to my heart
it is helping me pump blood.
I don’t know.
It feels like I am starting to lose sight of
what I have known.
Maybe I just need to build my home
here
because god knows I’m not going
anywhere.”

– 08.09.14 (x)

prose sad poetry i dont know what to do

See, they say the ones worth crying for will never make you cry, but I think that’s a little back-handed.

Like, hey, you, yeah you with the long sleeves and ripped jeans. You better keep the dirt inside your lungs because they say pollution wilts the plants. Yeah, that’s right, you might kill off the beautiful things in life with your all-encompassing black cloud, pouring over your self-pitiful head. No, better yet, you are one step away from a black hole, so you better watch your step before you fall away into nothing.
Breathing? Breathing’s overrated if you’re only going to produce the rain that falls down their cheeks. You better put on a smile and look like a doll because you aren’t allowed to hurt them, you aren’t allowed to make them cry. See, only then will you be worth crying for.

Crying can be a beautiful thing. Sometimes you have tears for the moments where you are deliriously happy, drunk on something they call “love” and sometimes you are so sad for someone you want to wash away their pain with your own, and sometimes you are so alone you want to push out the loneliness with some H2O and honestly there’s nothing wrong with that. Sometimes, the people you love just want to cry because they care, and to be honest, I would be worried if I met a boy who never made me cry because that wouldn’t say much about what I feel about him.

I want to know people who bring out the best and worst in me. I want to dance with the ones who make me mad enough to know that I care; I want to spend the rest of my life with people who will challenge me, ones that shake me to the core and keep their arm around me for support the whole time. I want to be with people who make me feel something because pain is a feeling but so is happiness and there can’t be one without the other.

– The ones worth crying for (x)

rejectscorner spilled ink spilled thoughts spilled words prose

I’ve been thinking about the aftermath of
death since yesterday.
I keep thinking about the people who cling to
each other because they fall apart otherwise,
I think about the outpouring of love that has flooded
the world and swept the universe into
a global hurricane,
I think about the ones left behind, some of them sad
some of them half-wishing they were the ones about
to enter the grave,

and I think about death,
I think about the way it clutches to your hand like
a relentless little kid,
I think about the way it is romanticized into a
possessed lover, how it calls you up in the middle
of the night and asks for a kiss.

and I think about the ones who have embraced
death full on, expecting welcome relief
expecting release,

and I do not know why I feel like I am breaking for
the moments before he stepped off the stool,
because if he had stopped himself,
no one would know.

robin williams suicide prose death poetry

they are not battle plans tonight.
no, tonight they are chaos,
watch and learn as they dance across
skin, leaving blood in their wake.

I have skirted across icy rinks on thin blades
of life, asking for confirmation from
sharp corners instead of bibles that had
been proven to save others.

I do not find love in the arms of those I should
call my family. Instead, I find judgment and
condemnation, things like “obsessive behaviour”
and “self-seeking girl”

because when they find entropy filling in
my lungs, they tell me to breathe it out.
I am no longer rain or fire or anything
in between

I have been asked to knit a blanket with no
yarn. Maybe that is why I am pulling apart
the sinews and muscles of my body to keep
myself warm.

lovely dust, ugly girl,
who knew she could be such
a manipulative attention whore?

– 07.20.14 (x)

trigger warning sad prose spilled ink poetry

she reminded him of fire,
bright and blazing,
hot enough to take his world by storm.

when he held her in his arms
he could taste all the times he had
climbed out of the grave
and tried to live again.

she was glass,
weak enough to shatter
but strong enough to draw blood.

when he saw her for the first time
she dripped of money and sex
lust epitomized
in the frame of a willowy girl,

because maybe she is rain some days
when she washes away the sins
of his past

and maybe she is a dove
bringing hope to his ark,
olive branch in hand
crying about all the
beautiful shirts
he had.

and maybe she is not Daisy
anymore
she is the green light he has
spent his whole life looking for,

the light in the darkness
the oasis in the desert

and maybe she is what it means
to live a story worth telling.

– Gatsby’s muse (x)

the great gatsby prose poetry spilled ink love

is it because when he prayed to God to save him
he forgot to fold his hands
bend his knees
the way he used to,

is it because Adam and Eve walked
hand in hand
their fingers tied together in
infinity knots
because
God smiled on their thoughts
and they smiled on the garden
until they bit on fruit
and hid from above,

is it because when he was eight
he lied about everything
from the little things like
gum and money
to the big things like
faith and family,

is it because he is one with the dust
because God pulled Adam out
to be found
and God knows how much he’d like
to return to the ground,

is it because he couldn’t save himself
because he lost his teddy bear when
he was twelve
because they told him he was
“all grown up”
because he still feels small in the dark
because as hard as he tries
he can never go to before or after
and life just seems to get harder
and harder?

– For the lost boys, where home is in Neverland (x)

sad poetry prose God adam and eve spilled ink

“1. see, I remember in grade three how we sat on the stained carpets and they told us about healthy eating. the nurse had the type of body that was thin enough to break, but her stature was strong, her smile was lovely, and she was healthy. “it is important to eat enough, but not too much.”
2. I remember the first time I woke up and decided to eat healthy that day, pouring out whole grain cereal into a bowl instead of buttering up toast with peanut butter. I packed myself a sandwich and skipped the granola bars because I needed to get in shape.
3. I remember how I came home and ate everything in the cabinets because I was so hungry that day. I told myself to try again tomorrow and kept on eating.
4. I remember feeling great about my body, great about my eating, life was good; I was happy.
5. I remember looking down at thighs so fat they seemed to scream out at me.
6. I remember counting calories obsessively, measuring out amounts, searching up the content in an apple online, recording my food in orderly rows, feeling like I was in control.
7. I remember seeing my thighs shrink, fitting myself into clothes I couldn’t wear before, standing in front of the mirror in just my underwear and feeling skinny even though it was only two weeks.
8. I remember feeling scared, like I had forgotten about my future and binging to make up for the lost energy, the times when I felt tired enough to collapse.
9. I remember jumping back and forth between starving and bursting, binging just to purge, gaining weight and losing, like a game of back-and-forth that never seemed to stop.
10. I remember meeting the counselor, listening to things I already knew but could not believe.
11. I remember telling the dietician it was unfair, listening as she told me, “some people are more naturally gifted than others,” like being skinny was a gift that God bestowed on a select few. “you’re smart. some people don’t have that. you can’t have everything.” like it is either I am smart or skinny.
12. I remember silent resolve, lovely lies to cover up my sins, because
13. I remember skinny.”

– Progression of eating (x)

trigger warning eating disorder binge eating sad prose

here’s the thing I’ve figured out recently.
you cannot breathe and swallow at the same time.

maybe that is why cannot bring food to my mouth
because the thing that is supposed to keep you alive
prevents the other one from letting you survive.
and I know we were not made to pick out this purpose
but I have been finding excuse after excuse to
leave the table hungry
because the weight of my body is so heavy at times
I cannot help but feel as if I will collapse.

see, in the universe, there are things like enthalpy and
entropy, and somehow I cannot bring myself to believe
that these concepts were not made to coincide with
our lives.
there is a boiling energy within me just waiting to fizzle
over like a chemical reaction
and there is a constant disorder within my brain
that tells me things that are not the same.

and what if being thin was only a stepping stone
to be something bigger than what you always were?
I mean, the universe is wired in such a way that
certain ratios have been put in place
to determine true beauty,
like the world has been ingrained with the same
chant
a call to arms for the thin and pretty,

and I have been left behind with the fat and ugly.

– ways to live (x)

trigger warning eating disorder sad prose spilled ink

there are still stars out there we have not yet caught into our hands
goddamn it, you better be alive to catch them with me.

you collided with the sun one night
and I saw the sparks fly off your hair.
I knew, I know,
I know now.
and there was something about the way you talked
the way you moved your lips
that made me feel like we were covered in stardust.

they did not tell me that pain felt this way
they did not tell me that pain is a state of being,
because it crawls its way down your throat
and enters through your bloodstream.

see, you told me you were afraid of the unknown
and I was afraid to call you home
but when I found out that the crook of your arm
could be my resting place,
I packed up my bags and moved in.

I do not know what it is they say about lost
love
I only know it is like waking up at night
and feeling you can breathe again because you
have forgotten.

but, my love, I do not wish to forget.
I only wish to remember all the nights we spent
staring at the sky,
our hands locked tight enough
right enough
to have made me feel like
I was one with the stars.

"…in ourselves, that we are underlings" (x)

prose love spilled ink tfios was my inspiration :)

Maybe it is because she has inscribed
selfishness in her DNA
but she cannot seem to find the point of letting
someone take her hard work
her time and effort
because she does not understand why
she has wasted tears and
carved herself with pointy blades
all for the sake of doing something a little
better; a little more
and she cannot understand why she has
made so many steps towards her own recovery
all the while tearing herself apart
and she cannot keep a bit of her insanity to
herself.

Yes, maybe she is alone
maybe she has drawn blood from her own
wrists to make up for her lost marks,
but that has produced determination,
resolve,
and a perseverance not found anywhere else.

So yes, she wants to keep her things to
herself.
And yes, she will not sell her own kindness
for the good of others.
But here’s the thing:
she knows she has been condemned to
hell,
she knew that way back before,
and that is why she will not sell herself
short.

x

prose poetry sad selfishness poem trigger warning binge eating ednos sad prose poetry

Is it because you didn’t want to be the girl who shut herself in, the girl who met the world with arms held tight against your chest? They told you to be careful and make sure you do not get hurt, but you embraced the world like it would hug you back.
So is it because you didn’t want to pay for insurance, or that the prospect of losing out on love, on life, and everything in between was too much to ask?

No, you are not a drama queen. You are a lover of life, so much so that while your best friend is off having sex with her boyfriend, you are busy writing love notes to the world. And maybe that meant you didn’t have the “real thing” according to a bystander’s opinion, but you were happy, happy, happy, and that counted.

Now, is it because you let people in one time too many, so that you were no longer your own person, but everyone combined? Is it that you decided it was okay to let her fall back on you when her relationship ended and leave you when it started again? Is it because you trusted someone with the one secret you knew could ruin you; because you gave someone a bit of your soul expecting some part of theirs in return?

And now it hurts so goddamn much because people break people as easily as they break fingernails or glass, and it is like you are watching your own life unfold in a movie, a terrible, sad movie. And you swore you were not a drama queen but this is drama magnified and somehow it does not feel like it should be.

See, when people hurt, they are delicate about it. But when you hurt, you are corrosive and you cause enough collateral damage to shake the world to its core. It must be because you swallowed the earth, moon, and stars, so now when they turn on you, you are strong enough to break them apart.

– too big for words (part 1/?) x

prose love strong inspired by my beautiful sister

I am so tired of parents who hold status
over me
like when my mom says that I survive
because of their care and support
and my dad says I am not dead
because of the God above,
and it feels like I am putting on mask after
mask of expectations
and I cannot peel them off at night anymore.

Last night I came home with an 80 instead of
100 on my test and my mom told me it was
probably because I studied while watching
TV,
and she did not understand that I had been
telling myself how stupid I was for most of that
day
she did not know that last time when I got an 88,
I made 12 lines on the inside of my arm to make
it a perfect 100,
because she was too busy smirking at the daughter
who was not so bright after all

I have been fitting myself into shapes that don’t
fit
and it is turning me into the monster I am,
because what child would dare think about ways
to kill herself at night
and what child would feel so much like she is
breathing in sin instead of oxygen for being anything
less than perfect?

but in all honesty,
what child would believe parents who tell her
grades don’t really matter
when the unspoken rules and regulations
have been tattooed inside her throat,
and she is no longer a person of her own?

expectations a poem by me

sad prose poetry poem grades sick poetry prose poem sad