Waiting For The Rain To Come

waiting for the rain to come

you measure your pain in increments of nine, pour out happiness in millilitres etched into a glass cup. sadness comes in ten gallon buckets, orange, contrary to popular belief. not everything is blue like misery but it's enough to last the year.

pretty girls aren't so pretty

red lips, dark eyes, hair tied up into bows. pretty girls don’t wear skeleton tights, don’t make black eyes with eyeliner and bruises. pretty girls don’t get into fights, don’t voice their opinion and say what’s on their mind. quiet isn’t a state of being it’s a requirement of beauty because when you speak that angel’s bow gets all twisted out of shape. no one likes a snarl, honey, don’t do that don’t give me that look it’s for your own good. boys like girls who are pretty who act pretty who don’t fight back. don’t claw your hands and sharpen your nails, paint them pink pastel not red like blood. pretty girls don’t smile like that, teeth out to bite put your fangs back in and hide that darkness. at least until someone claims you and breaks you of that nasty habit, your idea that you are more than just a pretty face. no one cares what’s inside your head, darling don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? you’re just a pretty face and nobody likes their paintings to talk and think do they. pretty girls don’t fight like that honey pretty girls use words not their fists you should know how many pretty girls have tried to fight you? cat eyes and bloody lips, hair in knots like the the wind owns you. pretty girls don’t look like that. pretty girls don’t act like you why don’t you understand? you’ll never get anywhere in life unless you’re pretty and pretty doesn’t mean what you think it does, you’re only a pretty face. you can move the earth on your own but think about how many decimal places there are in that number it makes you less than significant, irrelevant. you can’t move the world and time won’t stop for you. pretty girls don’t write like that, pretty girls don’t have scars like that baby don’t you dare fuck this up you will be a pretty girl. pretty girls don’t paint their faces like a mask pretty girls wear their masks all the time. pretty girls is what the boys want their girls to be. pretty girls aren’t like you baby why can’t you be a pretty girl? pretty girls don’t dress like hookers, they dress for boys and for attention. not attention like you get, the strange stares in the hallways. that’s not pretty. believe me honey you’ll thank me when you’re older even if you say right now you hate me you’ll learn. pretty girls, pretty pretty girls. red lips like candy not like blood dark eyes like smoke not like bruises and hair tied up with pretty little bows. look in the mirror don’t you like what you’ve become? a pretty, pretty girl.

excuses that could be reasons if you thought about them for long enough

1. I'm sure that it would've lasted if we tried 2. Trying was too hard 3. I couldn't pretend to love you any more than you could pretend not to hate me 4. You never told me I had to catch you 5. I fell all on my own 6. We could've loved each other and I think we might've 7. If only I knew how to love 8. It was your fault 9. It was mine 10. It wasn't either of our faults it was just the way things went 11. You were the ocean and I was the rocks, we beat away at each other until there was nothing left of either of us 12. The waves don't lose their happiness when they beat against the rocks 13. Love, I wasn't ready for you to leave 14. I'm sorry for all the things I said but I know that I meant them 15. In the end, we knew it couldn't last 16. It's raining here and I am in someone else's bed 17. Absolve me of my hatred, father forgive me for I have sinned 18. Honey I love you that's all she wrote 19. Goodbye was always meant to be forever and I knew we weren't 20. If I had told you before now, would things have turned out differently?

Some days I like to imagine that I am brave and strong and kind, and that if I tried hard enough maybe I could be what I want to and those are the days that I wear combat boots and paint my face like a mask so no one knows how I feel inside. I am wild and reckless youth on those days, purple lips and rainbow hair and I am not afraid of anything. I am not afraid I tell myself and some days I believe it. Those are the days when I can speak my mind and those are also the days that I hide it because bravery is foolishness when the line between them is smudged. I am too clear, too sharp and full of edges- my mind is not always my own on those days and I have to remember I am human. Human means that beautiful does not always mean pretty and brave does not mean courageous. On some days I am nothing and the wind is the only thing that can tell me where to go.

We Are Such Beauitful Creatures: about tomorrow

Didn't anyone ever notice that tomorrow doesn't actually exist? I mean this in a very literal sense. A day is created by a rotation of the Earth on its axis. If the earth hasn't turned yet, the day doesn't exist. And how do we know, how can we guarantee that the earth won't stop spinning, the sun won't explode, we won't die, or the millions of other things that could go wrong won't? That's the beauty of it. We don't.

love her. love her. love her.

there was one time i stained the entire bathroom sink blue with ink.

my pen had broken. when I tried to pull off the cap the entire casing broke into pieces in my hands. i don’t know what compelled me to paint myself blue, and stain my hands, covering them. they were covering in aching, in longing and sorrow. blue ink.

it was hard to stop; at first it was just an accident, covering the end so it wouldn’t splash into the white tiled floor. then it was on purpose, tracing the lines of tiny bird-like bones veins as dark and blue as night itself. my hands were cold and so, my scars were purple that day. i do not wish to number them. there are so many, scars like stars and freckles dotting the edges of oblivion. i covered that too, held the ink in and of my hands shielded it from the oblivion as long as i could.

my bones were the blue of night, darkest lines like the edge of horizons my veins were deep like cuts, so beaten they were black and blue knuckles and scars and lines crossed my surface, my skin a never ending canvas better for ink than knives.

my entire hands were blue, smeared with desire and want and need. need of what, i could not say.

(my hands were tinted with the evidence of my wordless wonder; there was something freeing and wild, emptying and intoxicating about the loss of self that came with containing yourself in something that is not you)

the ink was my skin, was my soul until i poured it out, staining the sink blue as i washed away the words i could not say. the scars i could not erase. the longing i could not name or begin to feel.

the never ending ache of want and need for lack of a better word, the spread fingers of longing grasping after the edges of night dark like oblivion.

blue ink.