The Book Ill Never Write - Tumblr Posts
I know I’m not the prettiest flower in the bunch…but that keeps me from getting picked. That means I keep living right? But I don’t feel alive, I feel very very unexplainably dead
Bleeding Out
I want you to stay. I need you to leave.
-Bleeding Out
He reeked of innocence
Bleeding Out
On the dreamless days those are my favorite days. When she does not dream and I can slip into her unconsciousness and we can do whatever we want. We often sit under a tree in the park and she tells me about her most recent read. We occasionally lay under the stars or dance on water. We watch films her subconscious has created and we cringe together. She does not often remember these dreams. But they are worth it. She is worth it. But the worst part is the morning after. Every dream must end and when she wakes up again. She cannot feel me. She cannot hear me. Cannot see me. And I am back to being invisible. Untouchable. Helpless. I am back to being a ghost of a girl.
Ghost Girl
There is no consoling the dead.
Ghost girl
Despite all of this. I did not fall in love with her because she was broken. I did not fall in love with her because I found it captivating how the light refracted of her broken pieces casting shadows and blinding colourful light dazzling those around her. No. Yes I loved her for her broken too. Because when you love someone with depression you love their monsters too. But no. I fell in love with her because she owned her broken. She did.not push it away. Try to drown it in her own tears. I fell in love with her because she knew that she was not broken. That she was fractured over and over again everyday and she knew that humans we're capable of amazing things. Like healing, and defying odds and learning to love again. I fell in love with her because she made the most of the time when she could breath. She talked. So much. She laughed. So loud. She smiled and ranted and dazzled those around her. And she did not need the light to refract off her to captivate people. Her jagged edges and smooth surface and her existence did that. She did that all on her own. When she spoke people rolled their eyes and smiled and listened. When she wrote. My god when she wrote. Their are no words to express the masterpieces she spinned with her thoughts fingers weaving unforgiving sentences that would hold you captive and you would love in every gripping moment and sometimes you want to stop. You don't want to read this anymore. Feelings spilling over this dam you have built around your soul and yet you cannot let go until they said you could. She wrote unimaginable joy and heart shattering grief, she wrote excruciating pain with metaphors that made you gasp for air. On the bad days. On the bad days she is still broken glass. Fragile and breakable and jagged. Except their is no light. She lives in a box that removed her from the world blocks the light out. Everything seems dimmer un important not worth it. She feels dimmer un important not worth it. She stares at the pane of glass that is her heart. The serrated edges. The cracks that are still healing the chips in the glass that will take longer than forever to heal. She looks in the mirror and says how.ugly. what an awful sight. And so she cuts herself on her sharp edges trying to pull them off...but she applied to.much pressure all she does is bleed and break the glass even more. I don't understand but sometimes when all you have left is yourself self-destruction is such a sweet saviour.
Often I do not want to leave the comfort of my pain. The familiarity of the thing slowly killing you is one not easily matched.
Bleeding Out
She
“You’re lovely,” you say.
“No,” I reply.
“Yes. You are,” you argue.
It is a half-hearted argument to you. A game. It is all fun and games. Until someone gets hurt. Until you realize someone was already hurt. LOng before the game started. 100 million rounds ago.
I am not lovely. She is.
Yes. This girl you fall in love with. This girl who tells you that you are beautiful and somehow always knows the right things to say. No one ever asks her how she always knows just what to say, to mend a soul, to send your demons to sleep.
She is lovely. Isn't she.
This object of my creation. A beautiful girl thing isn't she. Most agree. You seem to agree. You see I’ve been doing this for a while. The trick is to get it just right. Just the right amount of flaw to make her loveable. Just little cute things.Quirks. You love her.
I am jealous of her, this girl I have created, from myself.
Selected the likable things, cut away everything else. Cut it away. Shoved the bloody, broken parts of me in a box, tucked out of sight. In a notebook under the mattress. In a box on the top shelf at the back of the closet. The thoughts under lock and key in my head. So you will never have to see these parts of me, at least when I am with you. Except thoughts aren't so easily locked away. Little things you say, small compliments, pick the lock on the door to these thoughts quite often. You catch glimpses of me then. That is not the girl you call lovely.
She is lovely. I know.
I've been doing this for a long time. Long enough to know how they like them. I character myself to every person I meet. Little things. I’ve got the formula down. I think. Just enough of yourself, but not too much. Too much and you've tipped your hand. They know you. Where to hurt you. You've lost the game. Bet you forgot this was a game. This is a game. And I am determined to win, with this lovely cater I have created, for myself, from myself.
She is lovely.
Her heartbeat became a song I knew all the words to. A melody I could hear a thousand years from now and know it instantly, falling in love with it all over again. A song that reminds you of home. Steady and unpredictable at the same time.
Ghost Girl
She was not herself most probably because she did not know who that was. But I did. And I could never forget. And so when she lost herself and could not find her way back I would be her Guiding Light taking her home. Because despite what she believes, she is loved and will always be.
Ghost Girl
Too often I want to scream until I lose my voice. Until all I hear is ringing. Until all I feel is air in my lungs. Until all I see are stars Until all the thoughts are silenced. And all the words I can never say are lost to the wind.
Bleeding Out
I am here. I am here. I am here. I exist. I exist. I exist. I hear it then. And it asks all the things I am too afraid to think. Who are you trying to convince? It whispers. You or them?
The voices
Pencils and Prayers. Pens and Promises.
What Did You Leave Me With
“Hey,” they look at me trying to draw my attention and I try, I really do, try and focus.
“Hey, you're going to be okay,” they lean in another inch and their voice is soft and I try and focus on that.
“You can do this,” they are only an inch or two away and I can feel the warmth of their breath as they whisper these words and I try to focus on that.
“Adam, look at me,” and I do, “when you're there,” I take an unsteady breath at the mere mention of some moment beyond this one. But their gaze is beseeching as they look up at me and I try to focus on that.
“Hey, no, listen, when you're there I want you to try and imagine a moment. A happy moment. Maybe something from your childhood. Maybe something from a good time with a friend. Maybe a summer walk. Maybe imagine being in the kitchen, preferably not flooding,” they smile meekly, “in the middle of the night. Imagine you and me with a cup of tea. And go to that place when you need to escape. To go somewhere else for a bit. Okay?” I nod. Only slightly. Because they are so close I can feel every word as much as I can hear it and I do not trust myself to speak.
“A happy place yeah? Where you felt good and safe and okay...” there gaze trails from my eyes down the rest of my face and up again and I focus on that.
“A happy moment, maybe even this one…” the hand behind my neck is guiding my head down and their lips are on mine. Soft and warm and we share a breath and it is as though they are reminding me to breathe. And even though I am nervous now it is a good nervous and when they pull back and look at me I am focused on that.
“Are you okay…” they ask slowly, warily.
“Yes,” I breath.
“Remember, you can always call me. It’ll be tricky but we’ll work it out. Okay? You ready?”
I don't know what to say. How to say I will never be ready. That I was not ready for any of this. I know I cannot stay here forever but just another moment. Another minute. Another millisecond.
Their hand is still on my neck and I find my hand trailing up theirs, resting on their upper arm
“Maybe,” I feel their warmth seeping out of their jacket and pay more attention this time. A happy moment, try to mentally photograph it, memorize every detail.
“Maybe just another one for the road,” I whisper.
Leaving France ~ Excerpt from A Woman’s World.
Person A: So are we talking cute weird or creepy weird?
Person B: She straddles the line
Person A:
Person B: It's very attractive
If you let me love you...
If you let me love you
I would love you like how the sun leaves lipstick stains on your skin
Like how the moon trails your shadow and laughter
Like how fireflies emerge from your fallen tear drops
And the wind dances until it makes you blush pink
I would love you like how the rain washes the day clean off your skin so you can breathe again
I would love you the way nature intended you to be loved
The way you have forgotten you deserved to be loved
If you let me love you
Stopped glancing away
And dancing around conversations
And walking past me
If you looked at me
Let me look at you
Let me love you
I would tell you of how when you smile I can trace constellations in the spaces between your teeth
That when you open your eyes I can drown in galaxies that exist there
Pinpoint a pollen sized planet and make home there
Cease existing everytime you blink for a momentary eternity
I will trace the fractured lines of your heart on your soft palms and callused fingertips
If you let me love you
I will love you the right way
Which is to say that if you let me love you
I will let you love me too
Because sometimes the only reason you let someone in
Is so they will do the same for you
Tears crystalize
Blood stains set
And Lady fate
And Father time
Lift me gently
Off my knees
And together
We leave the girl I was
In the past
And I do not look back
For I know she will not be able
To lift her head
To look after us
~Saturday Afternoon Reflections~
If you fall in love with someone you think you can change, did you really fall in love with them?
Or with the idea of who they could be, for you. With the idea of you could be, for them. Savior, Healer, God.
If you fall in love with someone you think you can change, did you really fall in love with them?
Or maybe, You just fell. Like a mere mortal. Not savior nor healer nor God.
Or maybe, you just fell. Reeling from the mortality of the action, you try and convince yourself it was deliberate. Voluntary. Anything but the way it truly happened.
Or maybe, you just fell. And are trying to make the best of scrapped palms and knees.
If you fall in love with someone you think you can change, did you really fall in love with them?
Or did you fall in love with change. Fall in love with love. Fall in love with falling.
If you fall in love with someone you think you can change, did you really fall in love with them at all?
and suddenly the fragility of life seems so much immanent. so much more tangible. than it did. even a moment ago. as though if i were to lay a hand on the frosted window pane of existence. it would shatter under the pressure. my breath pulled onto the cold breeze beyond. tugged farther and farther away from this candle lit room i once inhabited. and this revelation. all at once. thrills and terrifies me. and the only thing that keeps my itching fingers at my sides is the knowledge. that the wind has already led you farther than i will ever be able to catch up. so instead. i close my eyes and listen. as though you might still call out to me through the way the air catches the leaves and makes snow dance. that you might still reach me. and i might yet reach peace.
Time is a leaky bathroom faucet:
The one you always told guests you’d fix eventually. The one you always told yourself you’d find someone to fix eventually. And eventually...it just became part of a long list of things you were going to repair eventually. But just never seemed to get around to because--it just didn’t seem that important.
Until: the water bill arrived. And suddenly your leaky bathroom faucet has cost you more than you ever thought it could.
Until: you are lying in bed at night, listening to the steady drip...drip...drip...of a broken tap. Becoming more aware of every wasted drip...drip...drip...and suddenly you are overflowing. And suddenly you are sobbing over a broken bathroom faucet--
But: it is not broken, is it? Just...leaky. But: you are not mourning the dysfunction of your tap, but rather, of yourself. Why didn’t you fix it sooner? Why drip. Why drip. Why drip.
Time is leaky bathroom faucet.
The one the previous owners warned you about, but: you did not mind. You were simply thrilled to have your own house. Until: 3 am, 3 years later, you are listening to the steady drip of a million wasted drops. Of a million wasted moments, Envisioning the oceans they’d culminate.
Imagining how much better someone else might have used a glass, or puddle, or river, of that water. Of that time. Imagining how many lives a glass, or puddle, or river, of water--of time--could save.
Knowing that each droplet down that drain you are never getting back.
But: it is 3 am. And: you are drenched in exhaustion and double-dipped in ache and so you lay in bed. Fall asleep, to the steady drip drip drip lullaby of the leaky bathroom faucet. And promise: you will call the plumber tomorrow.