i eclipse myself like the moon
in phases
i wane and wax
shrink
and grow
the sun
is both my depth
and disaster
it makes me shine
but in time,
swallows me whole
i have my moments
of rare brilliance,
startling darkness
for years
my loved ones
have tracked my progress
learned i am just as cyclical
as i emerge from new,
a shadow, a sliver
i grow nightly
in increments
one day,
again
i will shine
this year, i'd like to stand on my rooftop and let every christmas ornament shatter on the ground.
i'm going to make a tirade of rending the neighbor's wreaths, take shears to every string of icicle lights. because this year, peppermint tastes like bile. the cookies in the oven smell like ash. every proclamation of the holiday turns my stomach. each written greeting reads like an obituary. the blaring bright lights read like neon reminders as i drive by. the tea kettle's scream mimics your own, and every shopping-bag laden mother has your haircut.
for the entire month of december i've been chasing corners and doing double-takes, only to see
love,
you need to understand:
i have an addict's empty heart
i am porus,
poured over
a glass of wine
spilt across the tabletop
and dried to a stain
i am chronically empty
with a sieve of a soul
love passes through me
but never sticks
so many nights ago,
i begged you:
mediate my moderation
because i have none
my glass is empty or full
i haven't seen a single shade of grey
since the moment i opened my eyes
my world is either
a blinding aura
or a moonless night
my vision
is chronically skewed, tilted
the scales
never balance
quite right
the waters never settle
my body knows no homeostasis:
it is in constant battle,
unrest
my mind
i let my heart go in a puff of smoke
spill my morals out my lips
sanguine, sickly-sweet
like my laugh
left four stoplights behind
swept away with suburbia
tummulted under the roar of the waves
the weight of your heat
i left my body in your backseat
a smudge of makeup on the passenger window
my cheekprint on the door
foundation, sweat, a kiss of lipbalm
my hairs torn, caught in the rearview mirror
catching gold in the seven am light
i fell in love with you
in a way only fools can.
in the way a drunkard
kisses the bottom of the bottle
or my father tongues the last pill
of his countless clandestine bottles
before selling his soul to the refill line,
holding his own hands
around his orange heart.
i loved you,
until it burned my throat crosshatch raw.
love-sick, they call it,
me, in the light of the refrigerator,
all my love-making in grocery bags
smeared across the tile, glossine
with vomit, saliva, blood
i loved you,
the brain-buzzing
blackouts
dizzy with desire,
feeling you,
bring me to my highest
and shaking to my knees
on bathroom tiles,
dirty ditches,
remember in the heat of june,
when the town banned thirty minute showers,
sprinklers, washing your car, and you tried to run the well dry
pumping up-down on the curse of long fingers,
reaching inside yourself in thirty-three swan dives
and coming back emptier each time
remember lying yourself bare in moonlight,
spine stretched to the sky in a string of stars,
hair tied up in a nest of split ends,
undulating with the summer heat
fireworks going off behind your eyes,
the explosions in the sky lighting you up
in six shades of guilty and green
remember the after dinner walks,
where clearing your head
meant clearing your body:
grazing the
winter here means
the sky closes up
and the only blue i will find
is buried in my veins.
it means
as the wind whips
it howls your name in icy tongues.
as snowflakes melt on my skin
i feel your hands on me,
reverent
in the way a mother
touches the gift of a child.
it means
as icicles crash
i hear you falling to the floor,
knees shattering
and hands splintering
into synova and bone shards.
six winters ago
i watched you melt away
into the bedspread
and dissipate in the red of ambulance lights.
i held you in my hands weeks later,
and let the wind take you
in a single gust,
spread you into the sea and sky.
you are snow no
i eclipse myself like the moon
in phases
i wane and wax
shrink
and grow
the sun
is both my depth
and disaster
it makes me shine
but in time,
swallows me whole
i have my moments
of rare brilliance,
startling darkness
for years
my loved ones
have tracked my progress
learned i am just as cyclical
as i emerge from new,
a shadow, a sliver
i grow nightly
in increments
one day,
again
i will shine
this year, i'd like to stand on my rooftop and let every christmas ornament shatter on the ground.
i'm going to make a tirade of rending the neighbor's wreaths, take shears to every string of icicle lights. because this year, peppermint tastes like bile. the cookies in the oven smell like ash. every proclamation of the holiday turns my stomach. each written greeting reads like an obituary. the blaring bright lights read like neon reminders as i drive by. the tea kettle's scream mimics your own, and every shopping-bag laden mother has your haircut.
for the entire month of december i've been chasing corners and doing double-takes, only to see
love,
you need to understand:
i have an addict's empty heart
i am porus,
poured over
a glass of wine
spilt across the tabletop
and dried to a stain
i am chronically empty
with a sieve of a soul
love passes through me
but never sticks
so many nights ago,
i begged you:
mediate my moderation
because i have none
my glass is empty or full
i haven't seen a single shade of grey
since the moment i opened my eyes
my world is either
a blinding aura
or a moonless night
my vision
is chronically skewed, tilted
the scales
never balance
quite right
the waters never settle
my body knows no homeostasis:
it is in constant battle,
unrest
my mind
i let my heart go in a puff of smoke
spill my morals out my lips
sanguine, sickly-sweet
like my laugh
left four stoplights behind
swept away with suburbia
tummulted under the roar of the waves
the weight of your heat
i left my body in your backseat
a smudge of makeup on the passenger window
my cheekprint on the door
foundation, sweat, a kiss of lipbalm
my hairs torn, caught in the rearview mirror
catching gold in the seven am light
i fell in love with you
in a way only fools can.
in the way a drunkard
kisses the bottom of the bottle
or my father tongues the last pill
of his countless clandestine bottles
before selling his soul to the refill line,
holding his own hands
around his orange heart.
i loved you,
until it burned my throat crosshatch raw.
love-sick, they call it,
me, in the light of the refrigerator,
all my love-making in grocery bags
smeared across the tile, glossine
with vomit, saliva, blood
i loved you,
the brain-buzzing
blackouts
dizzy with desire,
feeling you,
bring me to my highest
and shaking to my knees
on bathroom tiles,
dirty ditches,
remember in the heat of june,
when the town banned thirty minute showers,
sprinklers, washing your car, and you tried to run the well dry
pumping up-down on the curse of long fingers,
reaching inside yourself in thirty-three swan dives
and coming back emptier each time
remember lying yourself bare in moonlight,
spine stretched to the sky in a string of stars,
hair tied up in a nest of split ends,
undulating with the summer heat
fireworks going off behind your eyes,
the explosions in the sky lighting you up
in six shades of guilty and green
remember the after dinner walks,
where clearing your head
meant clearing your body:
grazing the
winter here means
the sky closes up
and the only blue i will find
is buried in my veins.
it means
as the wind whips
it howls your name in icy tongues.
as snowflakes melt on my skin
i feel your hands on me,
reverent
in the way a mother
touches the gift of a child.
it means
as icicles crash
i hear you falling to the floor,
knees shattering
and hands splintering
into synova and bone shards.
six winters ago
i watched you melt away
into the bedspread
and dissipate in the red of ambulance lights.
i held you in my hands weeks later,
and let the wind take you
in a single gust,
spread you into the sea and sky.
you are snow no
Anthophilous (An Anthology) by Glasses-And-Blades, literature
Literature
Anthophilous (An Anthology)
i. Roses
She breathes through
tattered lungs &
with every inhale
that pierces through her
she coughs up thorns,
telling herself that
she's used to the
taste of her own blood
but her teeth are starting to ache
as pain wraps itself around her tongue
& you could hand her the shears
but she refuses to take them,
too scared of
how much it would hurt
to heal
ii. Clematis
I trace the v(ei/i)n(e)s
curling up her willowy wrists,
my whispers dropping into her lap like stones
(and she wraps her fingers around them,
studies them with amethyst eyes)
words flower from her lips.
Faerie girl,
I bloom into her embrace
and thread my confessions
in
Skin apricot soft, slight crinkle fuzz, transparent
and a-freckle, I am a buffet beneath him,
My eyes sails buffeted by the winds of words slipping from his thick love lips -
they are slick and wanted between his up and down
breathing, lungs iron weighted on me
and I am craving from the inside, his wired arms an addiction,
he cups my constants like landmarks: his are the hands
of a cartographer.
My bones stream and bush-fire, stone and slow slipping riverside,
He, the aerial pilot, graphite fingers insisting there is beauty
in the blackest holes of the galaxy.
I need not be found, yet still -
He finds me;
My landmark man, my
Hands hushed, our quiet gasps aglow with golden light woven with the bed-frame like your hands in my hair. I am pulled against you and this is happiness; this, your touch scattering up my spine and eyes dark on mine. Lashes lower, the world dims and you speak of falling as an eventuality, like love as an inevitable location. The stories I crave to speak burn the back of my throat and I lean in to you, your neck sweet, and realise you are train-tracks; both destination and journey.
Yes. There is more of me echoing in the cavity between my sentences and breathlessness, but that is supplementary. Remove it and still I stay, steady.
This is hap
i'm not sure how much point there is in writing here, anymore.
i've toyed with the idea of taking all this own, removing the last remnants of my honest identity from the internet. but i'm not sure that i can bring myself to do it, not quite yet. this has become a depository for my thoughts, a resting place for my ideas and past selves. sometimes i look back to old journals and writings when i need perspective, hope, clarity.
i'm at a turning point in my life now. adulthood is upon me full force and i think i underestimated both my ability to cope and ability to create a persona that seems capable, respectable, responsible. but the dissonanc
considering the dd i recently earned, i just wanted to say thank you to all my new watchers and old who have stuck around for an odd update and writing drop. this may be my fifth one (i double checked that number countless times, i'm still in awe) but the shock never goes away.
i went to write an update, and realized i have been gone for nearly a year this time. an entire year. i am so, so terribly sorry to everyone for being gone so long without a word, for not keeping in touch, or even checking my feed regularly. i've missed you all, i've missed your words, your art, and i've missed writing. i don't want to make promises i can't keep, but
recovery has always been more like a wish in my mind. beyond all the journal bravado, the big smiles for my therapists, it was always something i never considered i would have, but rather hold for brief periods throughout my life.
i tried my best to lie to everyone, to lie to myself that i really wanted it. and some days, i did. my most passionate, lively journals and pieces on here about recovery were me attempting to hold that motivation, just for more than a few days it hours, to pin it under glass. but, it never really stuck. i've never looked at recovery as a permanent state --i've always viewed my mental health to come and go like seas
I missed your birthday, so here are some super-belated well-wishes! You've been on my mind today. I hope your birthday was full of wonderful things and extra-warm smiles. Happy birthday, lovely.