Excuses That Could Be Reasons If You Thought About Them For Long Enough

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?

Have you ever thought about how every day we are dying, slowly disintegrating into nothing after all we are but dust collected into atoms that combine to become us, a body of thousands but yet only one we are a universe unto ourselves, infinitely expanding and collapsing as our little lives made of stardust (we are such stuff that dreams are made of, wishes forgotten and remembered and love lost and won) become stars and like everything die they supernova into an explosion of colour that we can’t even see if it happens but we do not see or even notice did it really happen or was it just an illusion, sleight of the hand that holds so gently a universe of stars known as us and we die slowly, not from ourselves supernovae in a great explosion a grand last act but of a thousand little things that break us every day, our tiny atoms fading our stars growing dim until we are left as the gloaming, the almost black fragile as the smallest thing so delicate one touch and we disintegrate, slowly dying every day bleeding out our souls till we’re an empty husk after all we are but dust

cityskylinesofimaginaryplaces, part one of two, ‘Pulvus et Umbra Sumus’ (via wnq-writers)

whether it's something I was or someone I want to be who I am now, or who I pretend to be be brave. -'words of advice'

There is a holiness to exhaustion

I puke, doubled over in pain. Exhaustion runs through my veins like the iron that is supposed to be in my blood, the iron that I don’t have enough of and can’t get more of. It tastes like guilt. Thick and heavy on my tongue, coating everything in my mouth. If you were to kiss me you could taste it too. I stand, wipe my mouth and spit at the ground. Curse, kick, blame myself for being weak. Hug my arms to my sides then give up and wipe at the crusts frozen to the corner of my mouth and my eyes. Water can’t wash away the taste of shame, of guilt. I quit, change my mind, stop, change it again. I will not puke. I will not be that weak. ‘puking means you give it all you have.’ I sigh. Pick my lead-filled limbs and heavy heart back up. Keep running.

if you cannot own yourself who are you

nothing is ours; not really and not ever we are all made out of the same generic mold and predispositions claiming to have found a new way to be original in our fixed rigidity. our ideas are merely thoughts been thought over a dozen times in the last second, a thousand in a minute and millions in a day our minds are preposterous unthinkably so that at the mere mention of all this being thought, being done and said before we build a city of bones around us hiding in our closet made of skeletons how can we not realise we are the skeletons? we are nothing but skin and bones rotting in our unofficial homes and when we are afraid of the dark we are afraid of ourselves. of what we might be. that we may see we are never truly our own.

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.