Anonymous asked: please post more?
Soon. I promise.
My days feel like Jackson Pollock paintings come to life.
I haven’t written anything in weeks, but I’ve been kissing poetry into a beautiful girl’s lips, tracing rhymes on the bumps of her spine.
Everything is as it should be.
Ambulance sirens should not be anyone’s lullaby.
The taste of every lie you’ve ever pressed onto my lips still lives in my throat. And the lullabies I write in knives to scare myself to sleep have stopped working. I wish the worst things on you. I really do.
I see you in colors. Prozac-green. Valium-blue. Vicodin-white. And on nights like this, I’d like to tell you that I love you death. But I wish for yours far too often.
Anonymous asked: If I gave you my email address, would you email me? MK
Of course I would! :)
Your lips are like hospital rooms. Cold and blue and sterile. But your hands, darling. Your hands are warm. And steady. And alive. And I know you wish you could see yourself the way I do. Beautiful. And I know you wish you did not worry as much as you do. But sometimes I wish I were more like you - lost and sorry but not owing anyone a thing.
I owe a girl my life.
You hide constellations behind your eyes. An auditorium of stars.
Anonymous asked: Scrolling down your page.. And I just can't stop reading! You are surely an unexplored novel! Much love, MK.
Wow. Thank you so much!!
A Summary of Everything I Have Said.
I.
A few more weeks and you will be gone and I will have 834 text documents saved on my laptop about missing you.
II.
Friends still ask about you sometimes. Have you heard from Cassie, they ask. They know I will not answer. I haven’t spoken in weeks and in two I will have not heard from you for four.
III.
On the day I decided to let you go, I woke up and played A Day Late on repeat for hours before realizing it was the wrong song. Perhaps even the wrong band. I am done associating my favorites with you.
IV.
People notice the new scars, referring to them as the aftermath of my time with you. They couldn’t be more wrong. It was the during-math that pushed me.
V.
You don’t call me anymore and that’s okay. A few more weeks and you will be gone and I will have 834 text documents saved on my laptop about missing you. They will save me.
(Source: thewhitebetweenyourwords)
If I could have caught you, like sunlight coming through curtains at seven in the morning, I would have opened a glass jar and let your sighs sift inside. But no amount of certainties are certain. And no amount of moments can be labelled and numbered and locked for safekeeping. I am trying to learn the game but I have always been bad at numbers, and the equation of your mouth on mine is one that wasn’t given in the pre-test, the practice run, the run-up to your last advance. So my hands just hold a memory. A trace. Time taking away what was with each tick. And how you tick-tick-ticked beneath my palms one Sunday night in a city full of sleeping hours.
You said we lived life like a train wreck, in the backseat past another truck stop. Where raindrops feel like gunshots. Where pretty girls call back. You said we lived life like a plane crash, but we never hit the ground. You said if you ever killed yourself you’d do it with the hand you wear your wedding ring on. I hope you never marry, love.
In my dreams I am always alone. Eyes gathering soot and mud, face turning yellow. Not morning-sunshine-on-your-walls yellow. Piss-yellow with lips dead and cracked. In my dreams I have an audience. I ask them why my bones ache. Why pain presses on my clavicles like piano keys. They never have answers. So I wilt under the weight of bed covers. Under the weight of “alone”. Under the weight of your memory parading down the veins in my palms.
