iwouldnamemypetsafteryou - Tumblr blog

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

K but if we just spent all the money from that damn Macy’s parade on helping out Puerto Rico and the oil spill on the Native American Reservation think of the true Thanksgiving spirit that’d be

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

One block away from Times Square, taken from the 22nd floor of the Madame Tussaud’s block of buildings. There’s definitely a story in here…

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Most People: *drink to excess* *party all night* *play loud music*

Me: *takes a nap at 7 at night because I’m an adult and I can do whatever the fuck I want*

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Open Door

I opened my door today

Living in such a public place as this is disorienting and scary

There are people who live in this hall but I have been

too tired

too anxious

too self-conscious 

to come out

Hiding in my den, I only surface when necessary

and speak only when spoken to

I have felt so lonely lately 

that it has become a cycle of needing and retreating

Until

someone approached me as I washed my hands and told me she saw that I was lonely

The echo of her telling me we should hang out more often rang in my ears

Her smile permeated to my very core

I picked up the dirty clothes off the floor and put the trash into bags and made my bed

I put my books away and put my backpack in the corner and turned on the lights

I did things that had not been done in weeks

For the first time in a long time

I felt loved

And that is why

I opened my door today

This is a poem I wrote today. If you share it, please give credit where credit is due. Thanks!

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

moldy people

i found out bread doesn’t keep for six months, even in the fridge, and people don’t keep for very long either – maybe eighteen or nineteen years without a bottle opener and an insurance policy with good mental health coverage. after that they start rotting a little at a time…

the head rarely goes first. usually it’s the waistline or the dream or the heart or the ass, and when you lose one it’s not so bad because you have the others still. but then you lose another, and then another and then the avalanche of human mold spreads from the infected areas through the veins until it consumes everything below the neck. then it grabs your tongue and pulls itself up the throat and it lingers there for a bit to taunt you – to get you used to the taste of loss. and then, like a serial killer savoring the final moments before a victim’s irises lose their color, it climbs up the brain stem one centimeter at a time with an appetite for all you have left. you know it’s there and it knows you know it’s there, but you both know there’s no stopping an avalanche, especially one powerful enough to decide whether it creeps or roars.

centimeter after centimeter you feel true evil for the first time as it relishes taking the things you take for granted, like breathing and hunger and sleep. after that you spend the rest of your life a green loaf of bread, sitting there in the dark, paying taxes for air you can’t breathe and pills that make you want to sit there some more until someone tosses you into a landfill.

written and submitted by @the-sleepy-poet

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Word Liqour

Poetry is the liquor of writing

It’s distilled

It’s had all contaminants removed

And you can get drunk from just a little

Sometimes it burns, but it’s a good burn

Only after we remove rules and contamination

It becomes pure and clear

Some people write everclear

And I’m jealous

Because those people can spit fire

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

you're a note I don't need to keep

dear Em,

I used to mark the days by four one eighties under a forty five then I got creative I sectioned weeks in heart beats so I could hear another & not feel so lonely I got lonely anyway I etched deep cracks in half hearted hopes that maybe this month wouldn’t end broken I ran out of wall so now I just throw them all into an uncountable pile

I can no longer tell if I’m counting down to a day I see you again or if I’m counting days that I’ll never scrub or sweep

I wake up I’ll forget to shave sometimes leave without brushing my teeth my jeans fail the sniff test my shirt fails the sniff test I’ll wear them anyway my stomach rumbles shaking welcome hands of my desk time clock my stomach rumbles while I take nicotine & coffee hour because I forgot that lunch exists my stomach rumbles when I get in sheets repeating your name with the intention of meeting with you in a dream I can finally get some sleep in

I keep notes of notes to remind myself to check notes notating all the necessities all the normal functions of survival I can’t remember to make a checklist of but I never need a reminder to write you a poem or whisper your name when no one is around because it’s the closest thing I have to smelling your shadow sunburnt onto the parking lot on my curbside recliner

I’m numb to years now the months fracture chornic cardiac miranda rights the weeks slip and pop records with mute needles the days, hours, minutes, seconds those moments when time stops being a number when time becomes rinse and repeat, circular paste motions six vertical buttons, eight blue loops, a blueberry muffin, a turkey sandwich, a preheat to 450° it’s when seconds become the last memory I have of you how hot your fingertips were as they slowly slid from my heart how cold my hands were as they quickly pushed yours down

when today is over I throw it in a pile I repeat your name counting broken heart marks on the wall until I fall asleep cuddling with a brand new broom a wash cloth hoping to wake up from a dream that no longer feels like

living

love bryan

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

THIS GUY WAS HITTING ON ME AND MAKING ME SUPER UNCOMFORTABLE, SO I TOLD HIM I HAVE A BOYFRIEND (because he seemed like one of those guys who, whilst they don’t respect women, they do respect another man’s “claim” on a woman) AND HE WAS LIKE “PROVE IT; SHOW ME A PICTURE” SO I SHOWED HIM THE BACKGROUND ON MY MOBILE AND HE BELIEVED ME

THIS IS MY MOBILE BACKGROUND:

I TOLD HIM IT WAS A PICTURE OF MY BOYFRIEND IN COSTUME FOR A PLAY. THANK YOU OSCAR WILDE FOR GETTING THAT FUCKBOY TO LEAVE.

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Something true but it could be the basis for a story/poem?

Have you ever wondered what glitter is made of? I always asked myself that question, but I didn’t look it up until a couple months ago. I didn’t want to ruin the magic of what I thought it could be. So many possibilities for the creation of such a simple, joyful thing.

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

No homo though *inserts winky face and laughing/crying emoji*

Not to be gay but girls are hot

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not Knows no release from little things: Knows not the livid loneliness of fear, Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear The sound of wings. How can life grant us boon of living, compensate For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate Unless we dare The soul's dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay With courage to behold the restless day, And count it fair.

Amelia Earhart

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Professor: Have a great break, do fun things *proceeds to hand a takehome exam, an entire book of readings, and 20 essay questions out*

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

can’t stop won’t stop

Source: @dan_cretu

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

You are always composed, bold, and collected while I am always reckless, messy, and impulsive. You look at me, wishing that you could be like me and I look at you, wishing that I could kiss you right there and then.

Lukas W. // A love story perhaps (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)

This has happened to me before

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Unrequited

A story in two parts I wrote last year. This one’s a love story... of sorts... More horror/Halloween stories coming later! I just finished a new one today that I’m working on editing now. Enjoy!

Part 1

I wrote her a letter one night. It was one of those late evenings when the sky is an inky black and the stars are hidden by clouds. It was, as Winnie-the-Pooh would say, blustery. Wind whipped through the branches of trees that were just beginning to lose their leaves.

I wrote her a letter, telling her. I explained to her everything I’d ever thought, scribbling it down on paper, the black ink leaking onto my aching fingers. My hair, tied up in a long ponytail, somehow found its way over my shoulder and stuck to my mouth. I brushed it away and kept writing.  

I stood and paced across the thin carpet with the stain from my broken glass of grape juice five years before, and over the frayed piece of rug that my vacuum caught and tried to suck up the previous month.

I lit a candle. The smell of vanilla and sugar reminded me of her. I sighed, remembering for a brief moment the way it felt to go to a movie with her and sit in cozy silence, smelling that scent for hours at a time.

I sat down again, the plastic seat on my desk chair sticking to my brightly colored pajama pants as I tried to grasp what I was about to do. I was about to finish the letter. Finally.

Sixteenth’s attempt’s the charm, I thought, preparing myself for the completion of this long-awaited, inevitable reveal. I leaned over my desk and kept writing. My pen scratched satisfyingly against the sheet of notebook paper, willing itself on, my head spinning in fifteen different directions. All I knew was that I was going to send the letter to her. After years of pregnant pauses and tentative silences, I was going to solve all my problems with a few strokes of my pen and a purposeful walk to the mailbox.

I bit my lower lip in concentration, the final lines of text illuminating themselves to me as I wrote them. I looked at the blank space on the bottom of the sheet, wondering what to do with it. Love? Sincerely? Thinking of you? Finally, I swallowed my indecision and simply wrote ‘Yours.’ I signed my name.

I read it once. Once became four times, and four quickly became nine, until I lost track of how many times I scanned it. I felt as though I hadn’t left anything out, and yet the more I was sure of this, the more I wanted to prove it.

I lifted the sheaf of paper and flicked through it. Eight pages. Eight pages of crap, I thought. Still, I was determined to send it to her. I have to do this, I thought. If she marries him, you are never going to forgive yourself.

I took an envelope from the stack in my desk drawer, writing her address on it in neat, slightly tilted writing. I wrote the return address and gently peeled a stamp from the book I had bought at the grocery store earlier for just this occasion. I looked thoughtfully at the photograph of us on the wall as I placed the stamp on the corner of the envelope and tucked the letter carefully inside. Together, we looked so content, like we belonged in that idyllic place and time forever. It gave me confidence. I’m going to do it. I heaved a sigh of relief. She’s finally going to understand how I feel about her. About us. Finally.

I was halfway out the door and on my way to the mailbox when I turned around. I crumpled up the letter and threw it away.

Part 2

I hate weddings. They’re too sappy and romantic, and I hate the idea of too much love. I would hate to get close enough to someone to have to go to their wedding, much less be in their wedding party. And yet, here I am now, sitting in the ballroom of a country club in Maine, watching my best friend Vi take her first dance with the love of her life, wearing an ugly purple bridesmaid’s dress and wishing I was anywhere else.

The newlyweds look so happy. They twirl slowly around the ballroom, Vi’s head resting gently on James’ shoulder, the picture of nuptial bliss. I look around the huge, dimly lit room. There are too many people here. I don’t like it, but I stay out of respect to the couple. I’m curious to see what the expression on Vi’s face is, but now she’s turned away and is whispering something in her husband’s ear. I bite my bottom lip and cast my gaze downward uncomfortably. They sway closer to my table, and I glimpse the sparkling hem of Vi’s gown. When I pick my head up, she is smiling at me, her eyes crinkling and her dimples showing, as they always have when she is truly, genuinely happy. She winks, and then she’s gone again, gazing into James’ eyes like I never existed. Too late, I halfheartedly smile back. I don’t feel very well.

I wish I hadn’t come. I love Vi, but maybe that’s the problem. I certainly should never have expected that she’d love me back at all. I don’t even deserve her friendship anyway. Maybe being friends with her is the luckiest I’ll ever get. I sigh. Several other members of the bridal party, including our old friends from college and Vi’s mother, glance over at me, but soon forget about my noisy interjection. They continue fawning over how precious Vi and James look together. Precious, my ass.

I think back to when we were in college, Vi just a little sophomore and me a super-senior, trying to finish up the fifth year of my degree. She was so naïve back then. Nineteen, she’d just moved to New York from Augusta. She was so privileged and optimistic back then, but she was kind and genuine. She showed up in the apartment we all shared, James and Brendan and I, looking nervous as all hell. So tiny and strong, her broad shoulders set strangely against her thin face and high cheekbones. She looked like a little ninja. A ninja with auburn hair and freckles. I was in the kitchen, making soup from a bouillon cube I’d found in the cupboard. I hadn’t wanted to meet her right away. I didn’t like meeting new people then, and I still don’t.

“Hey, little lady!” Brendan had said loudly, throwing the door wide and laughing too much. He might have been drunk, now that I think about it. I peered around the corner. Vi had gray eyes that shimmered brightly as she confidently walked through the threshold of our little home, but I knew she was afraid because of how she nervously bit the nail on her left ring finger. She scuffed the toe of her black boot on the carpet and looked around the living room, nodding enthusiastically.

“Heya,” James shouted. “James. Nice to meet you!” He stuck out his hand and she shook it, grinning from ear to ear. That was when I first noticed her dimples.

I slowly shifted around the corner, leaning on the kitchen door.

“Viola?” I asked.

“Please, call me Vi. And you’re Andi.” Her gaze fell on a spot behind me, through the open kitchen door. “Oh my god, is that soup? I love soup so much!” Her infectious laugh sounded completely natural, clear and strong.

I was immediately taken aback by how purposeful her handshake felt. It made me uncomfortable, but I didn’t want her to think I was a bad roommate.

“Yes,” I said timidly, retreating back to the stove to stir the pot of warm soup. “You’re just in time.”

“I think I’m gonna like it here,” Vi had said happily. “Can I stir?” She took the spoon from me, smiling broadly.

My attention is drawn back to the festivities when everyone applauds. The dance is over. Faster music starts to play, and the people who are finished eating start to get up and make their way to the floor. I stare down at my plate, my half-eaten chicken breast looking pathetic and sad. I don’t want to get up yet, so I continue to pick at it halfheartedly. My mind finds its way to the first memory of us, of Vi and I, just talking about life. The night we became best friends.

She had plopped down on the couch next to me as I was watching television. I didn’t look at her. I knew that she was studying me carefully, but I pretended that Food Network was more important. It was late October, and we’d only known each other for a month and a half. Her teeth glistened out of the corner of my eye, her smile wide.

“Where are you from, anyway?” She said it with such earnestness, like she really wanted to know.

“Right here. NYC,” I said shortly.

“But like, where are you from? Who are your parents? You’ve never mentioned them.”

“I… I haven’t seen them since I was two, Vi. I’m from foster care. I don’t have a family.”

“But you’re so well-read! So smart, so… so… Fulbright Scholarship-worthy!” She seemed to sense that she’d said the wrong thing.

“Just because I got a Fulbright Scholarship to come here has nothing to do with where I’m from,” I said angrily. I started to get up, but Vi grabbed my arm, her strong grip forcing me roughly back onto the couch.

She points at the long, ragged, scar on my left shoulder. It’s barely visible anymore. She must have good eyes. “What happened?”

I don’t know what came over me then. I’d never told anyone the truth before, but I told her the truth then. “My parents… they weren’t very good. It’s from abuse. That’s why I went to foster care. I never got adopted or anything. Just bounced around a lot. I guess you could say I’m pretty independent.”

Vi nodded sagely. I could tell she understood me.

“Why did you only live with two boys before I came?”

“I don’t know. I never really minded much. It just never seemed like a big deal.” She put her head on my shoulder. We kept watching television, but something had changed. We were close now.

I shake my head back into reality. Almost everyone’s dancing now. Vi catches my eye from the far corner of the room. She crooks her finger and beckons to me, mouthing come here. She looks radiant. Gorgeous. I am reminded of how much I love her. How powerless I felt as I watched her and James fall in love. And how jealous I felt of him.

I had watched as they made googly eyes at each other over my head as we ate dinner. I had watched as they kissed each other during the horror movie we all went to see. I had watched as they disappeared from the living room most nights, Brandon raising his eyebrows at me and tilting his head to the bedroom. I listened to James as he told me every day how perfect she was, that he had the best girlfriend in the world. I listened to him say over and over, “she’s the sweetest girl I’ve ever met.” And through all this, I stayed her friend, my heart breaking a little more with each passing month. I hated loving her. I knew that I would leave in June, and we could be long-distance friends, and I would graduate and it would all be okay. And then I could forget about how I felt about her.

That was six years ago. And now, look at me, my eyes filling up with tears as I cross over to where Vi stands, beaming at me. She throws her arms around me. When she pulls away, she notices the wet spots on my cheeks.

“What’s wrong? Andi?”

“I… I’m so happy for you.”

“Today might be my wedding day, but I’m not gonna let you be sad.” She pulls me across the room, into the hallway, and into the empty, single restroom. She wipes my eyes with her manicured thumb. “You will always be my best friend. I won’t forget you. I promise.” She smiles sweetly, her gray eyes still the same color as they were the first day we met. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t talk about this right now. This day is for you.” I start to walk away, but her hand grips my arm firmly again, just like she did when we became friends. I turn back towards her.

Before I can think, a sudden anger rises up in me and I turn to her, my face growing red with fury. “I’m in love with you, Vi. You don’t get it! I’ve been rejected by people my whole life! I’ve never had a family, never had anything remotely like it, until you came along. And now you’re choosing to have a family with him instead. It’s the worst feeling in the world!” The tears run freely down my face now, streaming over my cheeks.

“Oh, Andi.” She smiles sadly. “I didn’t know… I didn’t know! I did love you back! But you always pulled away from me. You didn’t like being with people. You were so aloof! And now… it’s different. I’m married now.”

She runs her hand over my left shoulder, where my scar is, and along the sleeve of my dress. Her eyes pierce mine. It’s an unsettling feeling, so I close my eyes tightly, willing this moment to be over. For a moment, I feel the heat of her lips on mine. She pulls away and says, “I don’t want to lose you. We’re good now, right?” I don’t move. I squint, sobbing now, not wanting to open my eyes and face the worst.

“I’ll call you when I’m back from the honeymoon, okay? Just go home. Get some sleep.”

Somehow, I doubt she’ll call. I hear the muffled sounds of the music and chatter of the reception. The door squeals on its hinges and Vi’s dress ruffles gently against the doorframe. I hear a click, and the room goes silent.

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

Feeling a little down today so please enjoy this story I wrote at another time I was feeling down

Umbrellas

 I WROTE ANOTHER STORY 

the premise is that there is a world where everyone’s mental health is visible to everyone else and it’s in the form of umbrellas so here goes

William walked under an umbrella. Everyone did; it was customary to do so, but some people had larger, darker umbrellas than others. There were many people with small, colorful ones, but William was not one of them. Sometimes, he would stare at people in the market or on the train and wonder which kind of umbrella they had brought with them, and then when they would step outside and open up their bags and pull out the folded fabric, William was often surprised by the type of umbrella they carried. Everyone’s was different, of course, but there were certain kinds that were worth envying.

William’s own was large, dark; it had patterns of black and purple swirled on its surface like storm clouds. He did not like it; it made him feel helpless, lonely, and overwhelmed. He sometimes did not go outside for days simply to avoid dealing with people’s stares and so that he could rest, but the umbrella and it’s accompanying weight on his soul never went away. He tried to break the umbrella once, but it had bent and bounced back in the way that many of them were built to do. The umbrellas in those days had become more resilient than the people under them.

William’s best friend had the most beautiful umbrella William had ever seen. it was yellow, with a lavender handle and golden shimmery stars scattered along its edges. It was small, delicate, and elegant. It was light and airy and easy to carry, and sometimes William’s friend would let him hold it and she would smile at him. She would always ask for it back before William was through, though she did not mean anything by it. it was simply customary to keep a close watch on one’s own umbrella, especially if it was one as prized and respected as hers.

William suffered under his umbrella. It began to leak, to drip water directly onto his face no matter which way he held it. Holes began to form, at first the size of pins, then the size of blueberries, and they continued to grow as the fabric slowly thinned and wore out. Still, no one came to replace his umbrella, even though there were many official government workers who were authorized to do so. Though William himself tried many times, he always came away from the shop with makeshift patches covering the holes. They never lasted. The thread holding them to the umbrella always wore out, until the shopkeepers could not help him anymore. William tried to glue the patches on, and even taped them down once, but nothing worked. Even thicker patches wore through quite easily, until  until it was silly to even try to repair the umbrella anymore. William was forced to let the open skies rage against him, and so he stopped leaving his home altogether. He was tired of walking outside and watching people stop on the street, look at him sadly, and shake their heads with shame. Once, he had passed someone with an umbrella quite like his, and they had given each other knowing glances without stopping to speak. It was as if a world of thoughts, emotions, and ideas stretched across the space between them.

William was hungry and he knew he would have to leave the apartment soon if he wanted to shop before it began to rain. he picked up his umbrella and put it inside his bag, hoping he would not have to take it out today. The frayed edges poked out unceremoniously from the top, no matter how he tried to stuff them inside. he felt very tired and like he might cry. Perhaps he would take the umbrella to the shop one last time in a last-ditch effort to get it fixed. Otherwise, he may as well just throw it out completely, even though that was horribly frowned upon by all of society. As he shuffled along the street, hoping that no one would see the shabby black umbrella peeking out of his bag, a little boy with a sky-blue umbrella crossed the opposite way on his walk home from school.The boy glanced at the black umbrella and stopped walking.William’s stomach went instantly sour and his throat tightened. he wished the boy had not noticed. However, instead of simply staring, the boy spoke quite unexpectedly. 

“Hello.”

William’s steps faltered.

“H-hi.”

“How are you this morning, sir?”

It had been so long since William had been asked that question that he did not know what to say. He still felt a bit embarrassed at the boy’s brazen appraisal of his umbrella. he did not know how to answer the boy’s question, so he did not expect himself to say: “I’m doing terribly, actually.” but that it exactly what he said.

The boy asked him to elaborate. And William did. He explained the ugliness of his umbrella, the embarrassment and anger that accompanied its shabbiness and its inability to protect him from the elements, the work he had put into trying to fix it, and the dejectedness with which he had attempted to break it when he could not. he explained that he had recently thought about throwing it out. The boy listened intently, and then spoke again.

“Don”t throw it out.”

“Huh?”

“Do not. Throw it out.” The boy had a look of grave seriousness on his face. William took his umbrella out of his bag and turned it over slowly in his hands. 

“What else am I supposed to do?” 

“Fix it. The shop people don’t always know what they’re doing.”

“But…”

“It may take a while. It might even take some extra pieces of fabric and stronger thred. But I assure you, when you fix that umbrella, it will stay together much longer than if the shop people try to do it.”

William thought about this for a moment.

“but what if i can’t? I’ve already tried glue, tape…”

“Then perhaps you need to look at it a different way. You can sew, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you need someone to help you get started?”

“Yes.”

“I will. As long as you admit to yourself that you do have the skills to fix this old thing.”

“I suppose i do.”

The boy went into a nearby shop and bought the needed supplies and they began to work. Eventually, after several days of meeting before and after the boy’s school, the umbrella looked a bit brighter and felt much lighter, even with all the new fabric they had laid out over the metal rods. It was now a deep, velvety green, and was much sturdier than it had previously been. They hadn’t bought quite enough fabric because William had not been employed for quite a while due to the state of his umbrella. The boy did not receive much pocket money, and a small, blank patch was left along one since of the refurbished umbrella. Everything was now complete except for that area, and William wrinkled his nose, uncertain if the umbrella was strong enough yet to hold up until he could afford to buy the rest of the fabric. 

Without a word, the boy nodded and began to cut a small piece from the side of his own sturdy little umbrella. he handed it to William, got up, and began to walk away, nodding knowingly. William smiled for the first time in months.

He went home and sewed the final piece onto the green umbrella. He tested it, opening and closing it gently, then with regular force. It worked. Outside, he stood under it as the rain began dripping down around him. It wasn’t the prettiest umbrella, but it finally worked; as long as he remembered to perform regular maintenance on it, it should last for quite some time.

meanwhile, the boy, who was always quite secure with his umbrella, bought some fabric to replace the cut-out bit on his own umbrella. He had not minded sharing. With his sturdy, lightweight umbrella protecting him, he could afford to get a little wet sometimes.

The End

[iwouldnamemypetsafteryou]

First line to a story

I’m in a city I don’t know much about, walking on a wide, sunlit avenue, and I am hyperventilating.