Teaching Summer to BreatheSummer will always remind me of hot, sweltering nights spent drinking sangria, through the dripping fairy lights of your bedroom window. A sticky, starry sky looked back at us, the glow of the moon almost golden in the heat. Fourteen meant we weren't growing up fast enough and a liquor cabinet key seemed to hold the answer to that problem.You taught me how to drink that night.(You also showed me how beautiful it was to just hold your breath till your head spins and reality seems like it is going to fade further and further away.)-Six summers ago I met a boy who liked to tell me how much like summer I was. He was big boned and thin skinned and the first time I told him he wasn't mine to keep, he left handprints on my skin that reminded you of a canvas covered in autumn leaves that you saw in New York. Then you proceeded to break every single window in his house (Yes, even the one in the attic he loved so much.)You taught me how to smile through heartbreak that night.(You
Another Language called EnglishI took your adjectives for granted. There was something about the way you skipped over your 's'es and gleaned over your 'i's and 'e's, that never really made me want to kiss you. You'd sit there with your languid fingers clutching a book that was half finished, and read me words that were completely mispronounced. It would prickle me under my skin and I would grit my teeth, wondering when you would stop. I would never understand the english language you thought you spoke, and your confidence in your own words annoyed me.It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particular made them giggle. I would stand in a corner, clutching a glass of rum and coke and cringe, flushing in second hand embarrassment. You would smile at me from across the room, and continue with your tangled tongue as though nothing was wrong.I felt sorry for you. But not sorry enough when you took your favourite writing pen from my d
My Name is Hollow.Hello.My name is Hollow.I live inside your soul.Under the layers and layers of skin,and tissue and muscle...all the way down where nothingand everything survives.(I wish I knew before I trusted youThat lying is second nature to onewith as many regrets as you.)My name is Hollow.I live inside you now,because you gave me the powerin all your virtuous beliefthat the world was goodto survive your strength...(I hoped to God you wouldn'tlie or steal or break what is alreadya thousand pieces of a broken soul.)My name is Hollow.You let me in when sexbegan to feel like an ache.But the pain felt better thandealing with the hurtinside your head, your heart...(This was always a world for thosethat were harder than meStrength is sometimes a very relative thing.)My name is Hollow.I am the jagged lines you drawall along your skin,your muscles, your bones...The sharp edge of a knife,the scarlet drops of remorse.(Here's a question now for your
Lost NovemberI am lost November,with the breath of winterat the hairline of its neck.I am the blood orange thatsours a little too soon.A thirty day intuitionto a season of good will.A blip on the side ofthe road that melts easilyout of sight, out of mind.An unremembered instanceon a torn index pageof a forgotten, spineless book.I am lost November.Remember me the instancewhen you feel unremembered too.
A Little Bit of WonderlandHer name was Alyssa, and when she was nine, her mother built her Wonderland. After being raised on a healthy diet of Charles Dickens, Enid Blyton and J.M. Barrie, it seemed like the natural course of action. She created it out of paper, each scene indispensably, indisputably perfect in its imperfection.And she did it because Alyssa was terrified of the idea of falling through a rabbit hole, into a place that allows magic only when you are confused. Mothers do the most impractical, exhausting things to show how much they love their children. It seemed a pity that it was this very effort that kept Alyssa up all night, staring at the paper people like they were coming to get her.(If Alyssa’s mother knew, she would have spent all her time trying to explain to the little girl that it wasn’t just paper people she should be afraid of.)-God appeared to have a sense of humour when little Alice became Alyssa’s best friend. She lives across the street, her hair always
infinite/opposite.being an adult means knowingthat there are things much scarierthan spiders, or snakes, or clowns.the ocean, for one.losing your parents.empty tequila bottles.unanswered questions.waking up, still reachingfor someone who left youa long time ago.--i live like there’s an end for mebecause there is.look,plants will wilt.forests will burn down.eventually, even the stars will burn out.people will come to us.they will touch us. they will hurt us.they may keep us. they may not.but i never hold on too tightbecause when it’s time, my time,i’ll only be letting go.--the heart has valvesthat constantly open and closegiving love, taking love.and my best adviceis to be selfish.know when you’ve had enough.know when you deserve better.close the valves andkeep some love for yourself.know that you are perfecteven if you eat that second cheeseburgerbecause there’s magic in this world.we’re proof of it.--apeirophobiais fear o
Scarificationblood oranges arebeautiful.we canslice them openwithout a moment’sthought, -their crimson juiceslicked from our lipslike ichor.& that is whati want to be. -scarred fruit,still savoringthe promisesi sucked fromyour mouth -to wearlike staplesalong my spine. - i was cut open once.
Confessions Of A Jeff The Killer Fangirl Part 4"You're what?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows.Jeff sighed. "I'm in love with you..."Jeff The Killer... was in love with me?I gulped and my cheeks grew hot. "Why?"Jeff mumbled something under his breath and looked to the floor."Huh?"He didn't speak at first, but then he placed a hand on the side of my head gently."I said... You don't remember me?"At that moment I slipped into a world I had tried so hard to let go of.~Flashback~I was young, probably only twelve years old.And I was walking with an old friend."Haha! Quit it Jeffy! Don't tug on my hair!" I squeaked, trying to release a section of my hair from his grasp."But I always wondered why it smells so nice all the time." He inquired, sniffing it."Shampoo? Duh. Besides Your hair is pretty cool too." I added, taking hold of one of his honey brown locks and tugging on it playfully.His blue eyes suddenly grew sad. "It's a shame though.""Hm?""That I'm moving so far away... I might not ever see you again." He frowned, rele
Dear Poetry,You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, slowly and then…all at once.
They look like fire made solid.