Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends & we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
5:20 pm 2,325 notes
April 9 2014
Last night I had a dream
where we painted the walls and ceiling
a pretty shade of black
the kind that makes you feel powerful and classy.
And once we ran out of paint
you bought another bucket at Walmart
and we painted the room
back to white.
This house will abandon us tomorrow.
Everything will grow legs and run off
to the woods where wildfire will burst from
the dirt and swallow them
in a single sitting.
The wooden framed family portraits
will trigger the fire’s thirst.
Rotten fruit will sink its teeth into the earth.
And memories — they will plant themselves
inside the elder trees and grow branches.
And you and I — we won’t go hungry.
Your sister (twenty-five, store clerk, pregnant)
will drive us to her flat
where she lives with her boyfriend.
"Just don’t fuck too loudly."
We’ll watch the wildfire
paint the woods a sobbing orange
from their rooftop
and I’ll fall asleep on your lap.
And the branches fell off their grandparents.
And the mangoes crawled back to their skin.
And the fire burned to a flame
which dissolved into the sky.
And I woke up crying on my pillow;
the walls remained white.
11:47 am 1 note
April 6 2014
when I was eight I wanted to die so I could see what it was like dropping by strangers’ homes during the day without them knowing. two years ago, I wanted to tie myself from the ceiling like a god but I knew I would only have one shot at it, so I gave up thick ropes and butcher knives and went for something milder. yesterday, I wrote a poem about drinking water at McDonald’s and crooning to Lana Del Rey’s songs. I guess you can say I’m getting better. my mom wants me to be a doctor and I told her I’ll be a psychologist. three weeks ago, I deliberately fell in love with a boy who used to like me in grade school by staring at the back of his head across our school’s auditorium and now I feel like jumping off the library’s roof without a parachute, because I know I’ll burst into flames if I don’t get rid of the butterflies screaming in the pit of my stomach. I’ve been writing journal entries when I should have been sleeping on the carpet with an old blanket wrapped around my head in a choking embrace. poetry is my medicine, but it is also the bridge to my unlikely death. and when I think about it all, something inside me is reborn - a candle rekindled. today, I strode by a festival I was invited to and the applause echoed through the walls and the warmth is still ringing in my ears like a mug of freshly brewed coffee and cold cookies. I always feel hopeful in the middle of the night right before I go to sleep. tonight is a prayer. tomorrow is a promise painted on neptune. and I’m blind to what comes after tonight, but the sky looks like it was drenched by the ocean and
it did not drown.
6:43 pm 31 notes
April 5 2014
this is not what love looks like:
her love is waning
to a crescent
and he’s eating ice cream
on her doorsteps.
her love isn’t glorified
into a glowing moon
and the flavor he bought
isn’t her favorite.
10:05 am 3 notes
April 1 2014
4:52 pm 20 notes
March 30 2014
9:16 pm 93,659 notes
March 26 2014
i’m filming a documentary for a project we have going at school
and i think i’m in love.
i haven’t been this happy in months.
this is so surreal.
everything is happening.
March 23 2014