Another day to be a writer


I will write about kindness.

I will write about love

I will write about death

I will write about the sun

And the moon

I might write about every individual star

I will write about pain

I will drag knives over your lungs just hard enough to scrape them.

I will take the air from you

I will take your tear- streaked cheeks and tell you

Absolute truths

The ones that have been kept from you

I will write about failure

And what it means to try again. Selfishly.

I will write about the things you forgot

Things that brought you joy

Do you remember joy?

The real kind

I will write about cold fingers

Yours and his

I will write about silk and satin and

how your skin

wasn’t placed on your body

to please anyone on this earth.

I will write about regret

How bitter it tastes at the back of your throat

I will write about the lies you told

The excuses you made

The promises you broke without blinking

I will write about nature

And how we’re are being lied to:

nature is unnatural

I will write about lips

The kinds of kisses you should be receiving

I will write about anger

Steel wool on the ends of your lashes

Scratchy eyes

Red vision

Burning skin

I will write about calamity

And how we know nothing of it at all.

I will write about consistency

I will write about persistency

I will write about specificity

I will make you uncomfortable

Sweaty

Guilty

I will write about tranquility

And how to achieve it

I will write about being enough being happy being secure

being unapologetic in those things

 

 

 

 

 

A Tiny Heavy Feeling 


There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for a hazelnut vanilla latte right now. I love being a tea and coffee person. Some coconut & vanilla tea would also –  My god how do I manage to digress in the beginning of the post??? 

23:15pm

I like to think that all my bad thoughts and negative feelings arrive in the form of tiny furry monsters. Long nails. Sharp teeth. They gnaw pieces of grey matter in your sleep. 

Currently I’m hosting three of those tiny gluttonous creatures in my head. They’re running circles around my brain and making it hard to think of anything else.

There’s the ominous murky future that I feel simultaneously excited & anxious about. Then there’s the state of myself, as in my soul, body & mind. And the world. I know that sounds really broad but I’m hoping that everyone reading this knows I’m referring to the atrocities that keep hitting country after county, family after family. 

I’m terrified.  

Desolate

1. The sun rose austerely 
2. He picked his glasses up gingerly, thinking, maybe if he didn’t slide them on, he wouldn’t have to see the day without her.
3. His body was aching in an unfamiliar way, a pain that came from holding onto words he couldn’t say
4.  Those words imbedded themselves in the fabric of his mind 
5. Their tips were dipped in the toxic truth: he didn’t want to leave this behind 
6. The sun sunk unsmilingly 
7. She crawled into an empty space at the back of her head.
8. She released all thoughts of him, they plastered themselves against the walls 
9. Every nerve ending felt heavy, her hand itched for a pen: 
10. She was so full of words they spilled- 
11.  Out of her in fragments the days stretched on. 
12. The desolate moon cast shadows that mixed with his mood. 
13. No one ever told him that is was the intangible things that could hold you. 
14. On another night he might’ve found something poignant in that fact 
15. But he merely let abstract nouns grab at him until he was frayed. 
16. The moon’s craters caused her to crave his conversation. 
17. The stars were missing. 
18. Or she couldn’t see past the tension in herself. 
19. She whispered that she would’ve liked to put her insides on the shelf 
20. There was something to be said 
21. And it was, just not aloud.