Broken Hearted - Tumblr Posts

He reeked of innocence

You could smell it on his breath

Hear it when he spoke

See trails of it on everything he touched

It radiated off his clothes

And shone from his eyes

You could feel it brush you when he passed

It was practically leaking from his pores 

The purity

It left you breathless

The sincerity 

Left you crawling in your skin

The innocence 

Kept you mesmerized 

He reeked of innocence

Bleeding Out

Falling in love, we said; I fell for him. We were falling women. We believed in it, this downward motion: so lovely, like flying, and yet at the same time so dire, so extreme, so unlikely.

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale

She was simply lovely the poems say. But she was not simply anything. And that is why i loved her. She was complex and interesting. She was unique and beautiful. And she was lovely but not simply she was a complex sort of beauty.   

Ghost girl

And So I Write

You will undoubtedly find pieces of myself littered haphazardly among these pages. You will find them strewn about in every paragraph. Every Sentance. Every phrase. In every word. 

Sometimes when I need to give, pieces of myself, and I have lost all the people I throw myself away to… I turn to these pages. To lose myself to. And yet, when I know I must, I cannot. The words will hit a roadblock somewhere. My fingers itching and yet unable to find the words. 

And so I write anyways.

I write this. I write that. I write it all. Nonsense and gibberish. I write. When I have words but do not know what they have to say. Put pen to paper and find release among lost pieces of myself. Let the backlog of thoughts disperse through words and ink. Incoherent and Intangible. 

Whether or not it makes sense doesn’t matter in the moment. All that matters is the words flowing through me, thrumming in my veins, making up all that I am. ANd so I make them real. Give them a place to exist so that they may grant me temporary peace, and so that I may exist without a buildup of unsaid words chocking me. Building up in my chest, filling my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

And so I write. 

I write the nothingness into something. Let the thoughts I can not articulate flow out through pieces they do not relate to but rather let their tortured vocabulary enlighten my release.   ‘

And so I write.

And leave a couple more pieces of myself folded in these pages, stained in ink. So when I am not whole, I can remind myself that once I had excess parts of myself to give. And I left them behind.

So now and then, I write.

To be in love is to not be able to breathe and yet feel more alive than you ever have.

All The Things I Never Told You (via bookqueeen)

“Love is a luxury." "No. Love is an element." An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on.” ― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke & Bone

You write Of a girl who has breathed life into you who sings your demons to sleep   who lights your inspiration who is your demise                                                                                                                                                                                                                          You talk of a girl Who you wish to know But is the unknowable Who is sugar and spice Who is fire and ice                                                                                                                                                                                                                            You dream of a girl Who is the sweetest sin Who is the soundest salvation  Who is everything Who is nothing                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  You outline a girl Who may be one Who may be many Who may be real Who may be anything but                                                                                                                                                                                                         I read Of this girl And sometimes I allow myself to think It may be me You write of

Tell me, do you write of me?

* @writerscreed *

Every night I wrote about him 

And that was the difference 

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

I have broken promises. But do not think, They did not hurt me, As much as they hurt you.

I never thought I would break a heart

The days have begun to blur together again. Morning to Night. Passes in the blink of an eye. And yet drags on for an eternity.  But for a few moments, when we speak, time seems to take pity. And I exist for a millisecond. For this I am grateful.

The Intangible Things 

A Good Writer vs. A Writer

As a writer, I often find myself in the middle of odd places at odd times. In odd situations. At least I assume they are odd. What makes them so is simply my awareness of them. Or perhaps lack thereof. The sentences in my head, pull me out of reality and daydreams into another layer of both. I watch them helplessly even as I create them.

There is a scene I found myself itching to write a while ago. It would not leave me alone until it encased me. Consumed every thought. Every step. Until I had encountered every detail it needed me to, and so it goes:

I am standing in a room. But I am not. For the sky is black and speckled with stars and the breeze is blowing and the stone floor is hard. I am wearing a dress, but no shoes. And I feel the warmth, of blood, running up to my elbows, splattering my face, pooling around my bare feet. It is soaking into my floor-length gown. There is enough for it not to be sticky. I have no weapon. See no bodies. But I know they are there. I do not know if the blood is there's or mine. I do not know what happened. Do not know what I feel. Or why I am standing there motionless. All I know is that the blood is warm, but my shoulders are cold. That my hair is down and my heart is steady. 

I do not know what happened. But I do not ask questions. Maybe because I do not want to know. And perhaps that is the difference between a writer and a good writer. Good writers ask why. They explore what happened before, what will happen after. They will work it out. Figure it out. They know or at least want to. But I, I don’t. 

I do not want to know why am I standing there is a flowing dress, covered in blood. Do not want to know why I came here, or if I will leave these bodies and go home to another, or if someone will come to get me. Do not want to know who these bodies belong to. I refuse to ask. I take what it gives me. And do not pry for more. I do not care about the beginning or the end. About where I came from or where I will go. Mostly because I do not want to know. I do not care. All I care about is that this is the one place I do not feel compelled to search for the answers that too often I cannot find or leave me broken. 

So I am just a writer. Who finds herself in the middle of odd places, at odd times, in odd situations, soaked in blood and refusing to ask why. 

I used to have a night light Because I was scared of the dark that pressed into me. Now I have a write light Because I am scared of the dark that festers inside me.

Bleeding Out

Our love was Untied shoelaces Stifled laughter in tear stained pillow cases Our love was Summer rendezvous Butterfly swarm in the hurricane Our love was Burning flame explosion With all the shrapnel Our love was Neck kisses Whispered words Our love was Teeth and Hearts Bared Our love was No secrets when the sun went down  And strange silence when it was up  Our love was Scorching Sudden

The Broken Boy Who Never Intended to Stay - Excerpt from the poem The Ways in Which I Have Been Loved

Our love was Tightening a corset while gripping a bedpost Our love was Thrown Kitchen Chairs  Shattered Bathroom Mirror Our love was  Shut eyes Dark hickeys  Our love was Overflowing glass of wine, sticky hands, sticky table Heavy Hotel Curtains Our love was Deep wound, just clotting Counting seconds on a broken clock  Our love was  Forget your day; Forget my name Lips sealed; Mind shut Our love was Wolf Eyes; Dark Night Makeup sex; No fight Our love was No goodbye Just gone

I forget his name, I don’t think I ever knew it Excerpt from the poem The Ways in Which I Have Been Loved

Our love was Baby blue leather jacket  And sunflowers Our love was Second grade "What do you want to be when you grow up" And the "What do you like on your pizza" question Our love was  Lullabies on the piano Heart in timezone tatters Our love was More I miss you Than I love you Our love was Cute animals GIF's  And orange juice Our love was Not knowing of the broken or the healing But just knowing you are helping  Our love was Me trying to be happy Just for you Because you made me want to

The Belgium Boy, The Boyfriend Boy Excerpt from the poem The Ways In Which I have Been Loved

Sickly Sweet

Sweet nothings roll off your tongue and reach for me

They are sticky like honey. 

Like blood. Like glue.  

I can't seem to move. 

Or wash them off of me.

It was saccharine at first. 

Now it is just trapping. 

I find it harder and harder to breathe. 

You cover me in mouse trap glue

And shove poems of unrequited love down my throat.

I still try and be nice. 

Because honey is still honey 

You are still you

But my mother always warned me, to steer clear of boys 

And too many sugary treats.

I turn my head when your breath comes to close

You think the goosebumps are of pleasure but they are a break out rash of fear.

I do not write unrequited love poems anymore

I write of how I love. 

I write of everything they are 

And I let out the words like breath to the wind

I leave them like whispy things. 

Not thick. Or oozing. Or dripping in saturated devotion

Because I still gag on the word beautiful. 

Because know all too well of how suffocating sweet things can be.

To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it. I have not forgotten, you or your smile, as you went skipping back to your friends, and I held my breath. To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it, you are beautiful, and I hope someday when you need it the most, someone is there to tell you.

The Intangible Things 

There is comfort and terror in knowing that no one will ever know me like I know myself.

The Intangible Things

And I know it is hard to hear. But it is the truth we both see and choose to look away from. The truth is that we were artists looking for a new muse. Searching for inspiration. For someone to knock down the brick wall of writer’s block. We were two people looking to feel alive again, looking for someone to light the ashes of our mind on fire. 

How long did it last? A day? A week? A month? Of sweet nothings and soft caressing terms of endearment. Of pages of poems and colour covered canvases. Of seeing the world in a new light. Manufactured arguments for the sake of making up and making out. Now? I look for any excuse not to write of you. Look away from your messages. Your glances. The tenderness in your voice. 

Maybe it is the guilt that keeps us here. For we both have sinned. Maybe it is the grief. In lost time. In knowing someone and yet knowing nothing of them and even less of yourself. Perhaps it is selfishness. On your part, in wanting me for the distraction I bring that you masquerade as healing. Perhaps it is selfishness. On my part, to think that someone may want a small part of me and I masquerade that as love. Perhaps it is arrogance. In thinking that our love is helping. 

But I am tired. Of living my life on autopilot. I am tired. Of acting like we have made this choice. I am tired. Of stealing and wasting time. I am tired of living my life on autopilot.  For it is barely living at all. And perhaps this is the issue with two artists being in love. The issue with two humans being in love. But rejoice, for heartbreak will free you and fill you with inspiration a new. 

love is only love at first, after that it becomes a convenience

…

I broke my own heart loving you.