Every year sand drips from the hourglass.
Every year people meet the loves of their lives.
Every year people get their hearts ripped from their chests.
When I was 16 I asked for a party. We debated the logistics and the funds, and after yielding to a compromise, you crossed your arms and jaunted your face.
"And when IS your birthday?"
That year I fell in love with a boy whose listlessness reflected my own.
I spent 17 years waiting to be loved and I'll spend 17 more.
Learning how to leave the past behind me and how to overcome stage fright. Join me as I act a fool on social media and share some probably really depressing poetry. Don't be alarmed by my content. Sad and terrible is the aesthetic here.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
guilt
You’re too scared and ashamed to speak the truth. The words
get as far as a sidestep in your mind before you drink them away. You think you’ll
break me with the same tongue with which you spoke false deliverance. Your silence
was never a comfort; why would it be now?
The true disservice is the lack of faith. In me. In yourself. In the inscrutable plans of the universe.
You said the sky would rain knives before anything turned out right, but the only cuts I got were from you. Yet here I am; hands outstretched and heart shielded. I am your friend. Not a victim of your humanity, nor a toy boxed away. Let me go. Face yourself. Clean your fucking room.
The true disservice is the lack of faith. In me. In yourself. In the inscrutable plans of the universe.
You said the sky would rain knives before anything turned out right, but the only cuts I got were from you. Yet here I am; hands outstretched and heart shielded. I am your friend. Not a victim of your humanity, nor a toy boxed away. Let me go. Face yourself. Clean your fucking room.
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