Blueink - Tumblr Posts
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.
love her. love her. love her.
for state finals we wore gold glitter in our hair, real flakes not sparkles, and it didn’t come out for three days.
even now i think i can still find pieces of it scattered from the uniforms, everyone’s tears.
for some of us it was the last time ever and it was good, god it was so good that we couldn’t stop shaking, crying, laughing.
holding on tight enough the moment wouldn’t leave but eventually the glitter washed away down the drain and took the good with it, took away that feeling too.
the one that said ‘you’re gonna miss this bad, you know, you’re gonna miss what you had.’
what that glitter meant.
for each of us sarah had bought real flowers, carnations dyed burgundy that she shoved in our hair to look pretty and i saved them for as long as i could,
longer even than i remembered what they were for.
the flowers were not glittered but somehow the glitter was worth flowers and in my head it all got confused because everyone was crying gold like it hurt and saying we were so good.
i found a gold sparkle yesterday waiting for me so i asked if i could be good once, if anyone had ever said i was good; i want to be good i want to be good oh god i want to be so good
that someone thinks the ending is worth gold glitter and carnations across the heads of eleven girls,
some of them young and stupid and some of them old enough to tell what it really meant
and all i know is at the time i thought the glitter was the only thing worth saving
because it was the only thing that reminded me of the way it felt to be something i had not often had the chance-
to be good you are to be good you are gold. glittering.
love her. love her. love her.
you are waiting in between- ans Meer to the sea.
i learned how to speak seven languages by the time i was young. they were not what i thought they should be.
in each one, the word for world had no other meaning.
der Welt, mein Herz is a terrible terrible place.
is this why we flee? на море to the ocean, to the sea?
when i said language, i did not mean русская or deutsch or română; i meant a different sort of words.
how to show fear and regret and to speak angrily, with no remorse. crying long hours, how you say, like the rainstorm.
there is no native language for grief because we are all fluent speakers. there is a grammar for happiness that must be learned.
when i was smaller then, not of body but mind, i asked how you knew it was really the sea. how it was not simply the red overwhelming everything else you saw.
i do not think i was really asking about the sea.
even now i do not know if the sea is what i mean when i say it is what we are all seeking.
weltsmurz we are all world weary. perhaps the sea is red because everything else is blue.
and the question still remains- if i say happiness in one language will you understand the meaning in another?
please understand i mean no harm.
für mein love, my love, my love, the sea my love, my dragoste my love, to see my love my love my love, is red.
in a place between words we cannot communicate and somehow we are all waiting in between.
little teeth, we talk in small manners to avoid saying what we mean.
what we can bear to say. there are quite a few things we cannot bear.
this world being one of them.
спасибо, there is a way to reach the ocean from here. is there an ocean everywhere around us.
in my mind the sea is red and my mind the sea. a language of neural patterns, waves, timing and frequency. i cannot seem to rid myself of the sea and the sea cannot rid myself of me.
from speaking in a manner of many words i have only learned this: the word for world is weary of being used in such a small manner.
speak now if you can see the ocean.
a small body rests am Meer, too tired to think the consequence. this is where we are heading.
either way the sea is still red beneath our feet, and in this language everything has another meaning.
love her. love her. love her.
you are waiting in between-
ans Meer
to the sea.
i learned how to speak seven languages by the time i was young. they were not what i thought they should be.
in each one, the word for world had no other meaning.
der Welt, mein Herz is a terrible terrible place.
is this why we flee? на море to the ocean, to the sea?
when i said language, i did not mean русская or deutsch or română; i meant a different sort of words.
how to show fear and regret and to speak angrily, with no remorse.
crying long hours, how you say, like the rainstorm.
there is no native language for grief because we are all fluent speakers.
there is a grammar for happiness that must be learned.
when i was smaller then, not of body but mind, i asked how you knew it was really the sea.
how it was not simply the red overwhelming everything else you saw.
i do not think i was really asking about the sea.
even know i do not know if the sea is what i mean when i say it is what we are all seeking.
weltzsmurch we are all world weary.
perhaps the sea is red because everything else is blue.
and the question still remains- if i say happiness in one language will you understand the meaning in another?
please understand i mean no harm.
für mein love, my love, my love, the sea my love, my dragoste my love, to see my love my love my love, is red.
in a place between words we cannot communicate and somehow we are all waiting in between.
спасибо, there is a way to reach the ocean from here.
is there an ocean everywhere around us.
in my mind the sea is red and my mind the sea.
a language of neutral patterns, waves, timing and frequency.
i cannot seem to rid myself of the sea and the sea cannot rid myself of me.
from speaking in a manner of many words i have only learned this:
the word for world is weary of being used in such a small manner.
and we have yet to set out on our own infinite sea, the red one we wade through.
of cut down trees and men. in every language the word for hatred is spelled like knife in back, in throat, in heart you do not have.
hatred is the killing of something not your own.
a small body rests am Meer too tired to know the consequence.
we are the word for emptiness and conscience.
we the only word that matters.
the sea is red at our feet.