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.

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

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

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

They tell me that alcohol affects a synapse
in my body
sy-na-p-se
I can roll each sound off my tongue
because what it does is it elongates my
syllables and cuts off my sleep,
and I can feel blood pumping through
my body because

I feel alive, I feel like I can forget your scent
when I have OH compounds running across
my veins because when I broke up with
a fucking scientist, I learned that I could
tell you how to name organic molecules
but I couldn’t tell you the first thing about
the chemistry of heartbreaks.
I could tell you about negative ions being let in,
about reduced neuron activity,
but those words taste like bitter memories
of the one I let slip away.

See, I studied the curve of her neck when
she studied her neurotransmitters,
I studied the exact combination of words
that would make her smile when she
studied her synthesis formulas, and when I
told her I loved her, she tilted her head and
talked about love as a mixture of dopamine,
adrenaline, and serotonin;

and let me tell you
science can’t figure out anything about love
because she doesn’t know how I lie awake
tracing constellations on her spine, she doesn’t
know how for a guy who failed chemistry, he
now knows all about ionization energy, she doesn’t
know how I have written new laws
and theories for all the possibilities of why she loves
me but in the end I had to watch her leave.

the chemistry of love a poem by me.

There is something to be said about the
eleven angry marks across my arm.
1. That is for failing so miserably and
only being capable of sitting in a puddle
of your own tears.
2. That is for waiting on heaven to save
you and only having the will to pray when
you are broken.
3. That is for using entropy like a drug, asking
for prescribed pain when you could have
asked for happiness.
4. That is for letting your heart pound against
your chest throughout your dreams.
5. That is for feeling relief even when you are
not perfect, for loosening up, for thinking
you deserved love.
6. That is for thinking you had the means to fix
yourself and no one else.
7. That is for abandoning thinness because god
you actually believe you deserve to be healthy.
8. That is for spreading lies into her life, tainting
souls with indiscretion, covering sins with excuses.
9. That is for thinking you are safe to walk
free after this, because a signed contract may be a
closed deal, but an ironed out heart will always
stay burnt.
10. That is for imperfection seeping into your life,
obsessive attention and never for the right purpose,
apathy piled higher than sins.
11. That is for thinking this is the last time, last time
before time makes it right, because you might think
it has saved you before, but this time, this time it
won’t.

—89% a poem by me.

make mistakes until you can count them on
all your fingers and your toes, and then a couple
hundred more.

breathe in, breathe out, then do it again (a short poem by me)

“you are not subscribed to such pain”
so maybe I’ve never mailed out the
order form, but I do know the exact
price I pay because I have been counting
out the change for exactly two hours of
crying and one day of puffy eyes and people
asking if I’m alright.

let me tell you how to walk through
shelves of anxiety, piled up in jars in the back
of my mind.
let me tell you how to shop through racks
of happiness, convincing yourself they aren’t
the right ones.
let me tell you how to draw up shopping lists
meant to replenish your store of the good
and wonderful things, but when you reach
the cash register, you are only holding a
burning self-hate that pours into your skin
before you can stop it from coming in.

here.
this is what it feels like to sink so low you are
only the fine layer of dust on the ground
when you start to rub yourself out of people’s
lives
just to be somewhere other than close to
those you love.
this is what it is to reach for the bottled up
pills that scream a release,
a cure for insomnia
a relic for your dreams.

lately I am all tears and sadness
with an overwhelming anxiety that sweeps
me up and takes away my sanity.

—melancholic musings (w.f.)


the girl
she is the kind who walks through hallways
the poet who was never good with words
always seeing, never speaking
because letters always fell out of her mouth
in a scrambled state
and her heart always beat a little too fast
for public speaking.
she stumbles through her day trying to
barricade herself from unnecessary thoughts
because quiet people always think too much
hurt too much
feel too much
and she has told herself time and time again
that she will never love someone with the
same intensity she puts on her success.
Failure is not an option
love is not an option
she is not the one you see with red lines on the
inside of her wrists because she has long sleeves
for bad days and determination for good days
and an all-encompassing prison cell to hide away
in for the days in between.
she is not the one you see with sadness tucked
in the corners of her smiles
because when she is bright she can outshine the sun
even if it is raining inside of her lungs.

the boy
he is all sun and never thunderstorms, the inside
of his chest has been fitted with a lighthouse that
pours light through the space between his ribcage.
he is all words, smooth and sloped like a
falling hill, curving up pathways and snaking
through minds
the insides of his palms have been marked with
things to do and places to be
the tip of his fingers have been calloused with
guitar strings and piano keys
he fits himself in grey suits and navy ties
and he stands in front of crowds
he laughs at his own jokes and
excels in math and he has paved a way for
himself in this world
and he has made sure to always keep an eye
out for the girl he loves to come dancing in.
he is the smell of fresh sheets and bitter coffee
he is the core of the sun and the craters in
the moon
he loves too soon
and one day he will love her too.

—the girl: the boy (w.f.)

His is the one of eyes so blue they are like
icy waves on a hot summer day

His is the one of smiles so wide they split
across his face like an earthquake, hugs so
tight they hold the world in their arms, minds
so free they break loose of chains

His is the one who made me forget my lines,
the one I wrote bad poetry about, the life I
made into lyrical foreshadowing, trying to single
out one fraction of fate to make my own, the
one I labeled in my first diary entry, because
beginnings were important, and he was my new
beginning

His is the one I learned to lose in the middle of
a grasp so tight, the one I tried to avoid in the halls
because it became embarrassing to look him in
the eye, the one who made me think of prince
charmings, the one I realized had been a mistake
to try and push into my way, the one who found
a nook in the back of my mind and curled up to
sleep when I wasn’t looking, the one who fizzled over
like a soft drink and spilled back into my life like
another leak

His is the one I put away as another imagining
meant to be locked in some forgotten drawer, the
one I tried to protect from those around me and myself,
the one I stopped searching for just to save the ones
he’d broken, the one I made sure was always happy,
always a little too indulgent in love, the one I knew
might one day look back

His is the one I will read over and over until
I no longer know the lines to my own.

—“got away” (w.f.)