#an excerpt from a book I'll write

[lilliesand-valleys]

[scriptastra]

[letterstokami]

[writingthethoughtsaway]

“I believed you even when I knew you were lying.”

- S. C. C.

[vomitingwords]

and then I learned

how to cry

without tears

falling from my eyes

behind clouds // ma.c.a

[cvtastrophee]

why do i feel like i'm killing myself over and over again?

[prosebyday]

This time of year is like a hall of mirrors, a haunting time of reflection.  I can’t look away from my past, everywhere I turn it stares me in the face, reminding me of where I was last year, 2 years ago, 3, 4, 5 – all the possible futures I envisioned and watched crumble. Oh, how things change. I am unrecognizable. 

Hall of Mirrors // Grazia Curcuru

[thewaitingluna]

I want to share the things I like with someone who understands.

[ninasdrafts]

(shortened)

[lilliesand-valleys]

[scriptastra]

[palladiumfragments]

my fingerprint was in the things i didn't say

all the things i didn't say is a tortured poet whose pockets i filled with stones and coaxed into walking into a lake down, down she goes never to be seen again. deep within, you know i, too, struck a match that led us to this precipice but without a body, mystery shrouds it like a story the townspeople think they know until you ask them about it.

so say the hard things one last time, your heart in your throat words hesitantly falling like a light summer rain. at the same moment, i was staring at the crash playing over your face like a see-through film scene. necessary lies filled the spaces where it could have been i tell myself, "better that than asking for forgiveness" i was already mad enough to let it haunt me it's these hands i can't stain.

soon, this case will turn cold confined in polaroids collecting dust in an evidence room fleeting, but in a way, timeless. i'll never speak of it again but nostalgia is the god i believe in so forgive me if i would still hear it in songs feel it in the shadows, bleed it into poems but darling if i spilled my guts you'll be the last to know.

[charmingwinds]

I read somewhere that the act of peeling oranges for someone is considered love. I found it stupid.

Then one day, I was home after a tiring day and there were oranges sitting on the counter. I knew they had to be eaten that day, a day later, they’d be rotten.

I was just too tired.

I completed my chores, and the oranges were still there, colourful and nudging, hoping I’d pick them up.

I walked past, and found my bed. My head comfortably rested on the pillows.

Those damn oranges.

I got up, sat on the counter and peeled them grudgingly. As I ate in silence, I understood what they meant. It was love alright, not peeling oranges but being taken care of.

[beforeyearning]

quiet musing in the kitchen. click for better quality. full transcript under the cut.

I love you. I don’t know what to do with my hands. If I stay

idle I think I would spontaneously combust, so I nervously

clean the kitchen. I put on the kettle, and heat up some

biscuits. The kitchen is a great hiding place, so I say it again,

I love you. You won’t hear it over the roar of the kettle &

hum of the air-fryer. At times, loving you feels like a

balancing act, because yes, I’ve forgotten to eat today

but I worshiped you in a hundred novel ways.

There’s a certain intimacy being hunched over a

couple of ripping hot pots and pans, transforming

the raw into something delicious. Maybe that’s why

I feel comfortable in the kitchen & with loving you—

love as an act of transformation, so I love you more,

so I can be anyone else but me.

[cvtastrophee]

i have yet to find the end to this pain.

[trustonlystars]

Poetry is the softest way to hold a memory.

Happy World Poetry day | trustonlystars