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.

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

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