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.

Could you come over and hold me tonight?
Because I have folded too much pain into
myself
and I am suddenly feeling like the lethargy
in morning colds and winter evenings.

I just want another soul to tell me that
I am not the only shivering corpse out on
this rainy night
I want to see stars engraved into your bones
so I can make you my wish

May I dance my fingers across your ribcage
and pretend you are my empty grave,
may I be morbidly close to death
so that you are one part lover, one part jilted?

Beloved,
may I make you hate me enough that
you would call me attention whore
because I have ripped out your soul
and fed it to the burning fire inside of
these bones?

– (x)

sad trigger warning prose poetry

Because could you hold her on moonless nights
when she smells of cigarettes she’s never tried?
Her heart swallows like it is trying to get
past the lump in its pulmonary vein
and she never knew she could feel so much
pain.

Yes, could you place her on the tip of your
spoon
and wait for her to fall in your soup
maybe then you will not eat a drowning soul
maybe then you can leave the table
without being full.

Don’t follow the yellow brick road tonight,
Just wait for the creatures to show their fangs.
You are only poison traveling through the length
of the walls
poison ivy climbing through the cells
prison yourself
prison your fall.

– 10.05.14 (x)

prose poetry sad

“well yes,
you say
yes I am a little too big for my bones
yes
I have carved a treehouse within my soul
and yes
I like to eat icecream on cold winter nights
and I like to ask them to put a little more ketchup
on my fries.
because what is so wrong about being big?
about being a little too hefty to fit into
mini dresses?
look ladies
what if my butt covers more surface area than
the rest of yours combined
you know that never stopped the flowers from
germinating and
swallowing up acres of land,
that never stopped this girl from swallowing
entire universes.
you know,
I am proud to be big
just like she is proud to be skinny
because there is something beautiful about
curves that are secretly warriors underneath
all the euphemism that get shoved on top of them,
there is something sensual about large numbers
because they are closer to infinities
and I’m not saying size defines you because it doesn’t
but what if I want to be bigger than stick-thin
models
what if I want to be fuller than her itty bitty waist
and what if I want to be happy
accepted
not because I am confident in my skin
but for all the reasons thin people are loved,
whatever they are?”

– (x)

big is beautiful poetry love yourself please love yourself guys it's kind of nice to be not skinny but i hope this doesnt come off as skinny shaming in any way but i just wish we could see that it's okay to be big too there's nothing wrong with it

See, sometimes at night, the pain still tears through me
like I am construction paper in the hands of a five-year old
and I cannot believe I turned up this way,
hands extended beyond my chest
palm upwards to a God who took away the man I love
chin sinking so low against my lungs
I feel I may be swallowed whole.

Sometimes by day I stare at the children with
happy eyes and I wonder how I would do things
differently
because they are growing flowers inside of their
lungs
in a bid to manufacture photosynthesis all by themselves

and I just want to tell them
“yes, I know, I KNOW”
because I know what it’s like to feel like you are on
top of the world
and I know what it’s like to make people into homes
but I know life beyond the voices of the strong;
I know voices of the weak
tears of the lonesome
because it streaks through my bones
like rain on windowpanes
and it is okay sometimes to be less than what you
were meant to be.

I mean, people were always made to love another,
and it has been several years too long for this sort of
triviality,
but entropy was tattooed inside of my spine
and it keeps me upright
it keeps me alive.

see, sometimes at night, I still cry about what
I’ve lost,
but in the morning I will try harder to make them
laugh
to make them smile
because I carry loss around for illusory effects
and they will know I am strong
even though my courage has never felt so small.

Tell me again (x)

prose sad poetry poem death loss trigger warning

“Do not shrink yourself to his height.
My dear, do not cower in on yourself, like you are the harmony to his melody. You do not have to take backstage when you were made to be the lead role.
Love does not mean shrinking in when he’s around,
It means holding up your head even if you are a couple centimetres taller.
Have you not heard? You do not need to cut and paste that smile on your face. If you are unhappy, let him know. There is no shame in letting go of pride. Sometimes it’s okay to be selfish.
My dear, don’t be the one who picks up her phone late at night and realize the only number you can call is his. Don’t trail a few metres beihnd him, picking up his messes; don’t trail a few metres ahead, waiting for him to pick up yours.
My dear, and if at the end of it all you crack at the seams, remember this. You do not have to break in the right way. You do not have to break along the fault lines of an earthquake warning that they have drawn out over your body. Break violently; be corrosive, cause enough collateral damage that he won’t ever try to hurt you the way he did. Show them how caustic you really are; burn through their souls, twist their sinews into heartstrings and never ever apologize for it.”

relationships advice love prose spilled ink

sometimes I am close enough to hear
your laboured breathing,
and it makes me think about
chewing food
and smacking gum
and how much these sounds make me
want to unravel my insides.

sometimes I am close enough to being
skinny
and it makes me thing about
holding hands
and biting lips
and how much these gestures make me
want to be worthy of them,

sometimes I am close enough to see
your ribcage
and it makes me think about
locked hearts
and lost keys
and how little these things
really mean to me.

– sometimes I am (x)

sad trigger warning prose poetry skinny

The thing is,
the thing is it is not okay.
Sometimes I think about how you
are gone
and how I will not see you again
for such a long time
that my heart constricts and
my breath feels out of place.

I don’t think we were made to
leave constant companions who talk
to us every day because
it is like jumping from one extreme to
the next.

Sometimes I tell them stories where
you used to make me mad enough to
cry,
because it somehow makes me feel
alright

I guess anger and nostalgia mixes
together
like butter and sugar,

and I just want to tell you to come
back
and stay one more day.

– a few more months (X)

prose sad i miss my sister very very much sad trigger warning prose poetry spilled ink failure sad prose poetry poem sad prose poetry cry poem sad prose poetry poem spilled ink expectations prose poetry sad poem prose poetry spilled ink spilled thoughts annoying people should go away

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