spillinginklets-blog

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woke up couldn’t sleep took a walk. water. eating cheerios with sliced bananas and a little bit (a lot) of sugar sprinkled on top and the way the bananas stick to the side of the bowl is a weird kind of nostalgia and I am suddenly a child again in the days when mum would wake me every morning and ask what I would like for breakfast. the answer was always cheerios with sliced bananas.

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you make my heart do a thing ; a sing-song thing pitter-patter rat-a-tatter skip-a-beat-or-two(but not any more or else I would probably be dying)thing but i'd be lying if i said it didn't feel so good it's a strange sort of hurts-so-good the kind of hurt that hurts to let go of a kind of hurt a kind of thing a sing-song pitter-patter rat-a-tatter thing a skip or two or more you warm me to my core and it makes me smile i wish it would last more than a while but while it lasts i'll enjoy it because any quality time even teary-eyed and tired with you is worth it worth it worth it worth(thewa)it i hope someday after all these sleepless nights you'll say to me under the covers as you turn out the light that i was worth it 8/365 13.2.2017

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“prayerfully consider” a phrase we use too often - too much “i’ll pray about it” is just a cheap way of saying “no”

no, no - perhaps it’s instead an “I need more time”

i need more time i need more time i need more time

7/365 6.2.17

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the ice on the trees and under our feet makes me shiver as your breath on my neck and lips on my ear and cheek and lips on my lips on my lips on my lips cold noses are red your eyes ocean blue I wouldn't mind spending my life with you 6/365 15.1.17

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i'm the kind of girl who goes to a party and passes out alone. 5.1.17 5/365

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friendship is a funny thing. it's funny because when it's real you can part ways for days months years and something will always p ul l you backtogether. friendship is a funny thing. it's funny because it changes subtly sl o w l y and before you know it watermelon ukuleles become combat boots and coats of black paint turn army green. friendship is a funny thing. it's funny but i think i like it. 4.1.17 4/365

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depression is heavy. heavy skin heavy eyelids heavy heart hard to help yourself dragging dry bones and weary wary self out of bed but you want so badly to get the fuck out of bed and there's this fleeting fearful feeling of being trapped it's fucking terrifying because you want to get out out out out of the house that holds all these memories but you can't and what's worse is knowing it doesn't stop there it's not the house that you have to escape it's all in your head and you know that you're the one thing you can't ever get away from 3/365 3.1.2017

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the human body is

really weird.

we are strangely shaped smushed-up

lumps of meat and bone and flesh.

we are rippable, breakable, flimsy, weak

even the most dedicated athlete cannot protect their frame from injury

yet it’s a miraculous sort of beautiful

the way our atoms cling to one another in just the right way

to form our structure, our nerves, our blood and the veins that carry it,

a heart to love, lungs to inhale cold winter air, a brain to overthink things.

bones may break and skin can tear,

wither away, become aged and worn,

but identity is impenetrable. 

who we are is not defined by the shell that encases our soul.

we are so much more than lumps of meat and bone and flesh.

2.1.2017

2/365

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on this day two years ago i wrote a poem about who i was and now it makes me laugh with a sort of gentle nostalgia. i wrote about sunrises and cigarettes because i felt like i needed those things in my eyes and heart and lungs to feel alive and i wrote about the fear of falling in love because i had not yet learned that what hurts is when people fall out of it. i painted a picture in words of a quirky sixteen year old girl whose socks never matched and dressed most often in shades of black (okay, some things never change) and i wrote about my desire my longing for truth, clarity, transparency "scars on my hips but no secrets on my lips" and how badly i wanted someone to be intimately transparent with. 1.1.17 1/365

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One. A sunflower is God's work. Each atom stitched together each fiber woven each hue delicately painted intentionally and masterfully. Two. A sunflower is deeply rooted yet it still reaches up up up seeking something else adventure, experience, uninhibited joy. Still, it knows it's place atop the soft earth. Three. A sunflower is strong. Thick stemmed, with shining face and broad leaves reaching out to embrace like a familiar friend. It is not shaken by the wind, but rather smiles at the breeze against its petals. I think that the beauty of a sunflower is one beyond its aesthetic because if you take a moment to ponder what makes a sunflower itself you might begin to learn a thing about what it means to be alive

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i am just an ordinary statue and i know that as time passes i will start to crumble (the grass withers and the flowers fade, after all) but there is a certain kind of comfort knowing that for some time, my existence was worthwhile.

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you are oh so gentle
yet hardly fragile.
i am not afraid
of myself
when i’m with 
you. you and i both know
i have a few
rough edges
yet you do not hesitate to embrace me
and all that i am
(and i am so ready to be embraced) you have some
rough edges
too;
and when our bodies meet
i find our edges rather neatly align.
perhaps this is why i 
can breathe a little 
easier
in your arms. i hope you remember that 
it’s okay
to breathe easy 
with me
too.

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the candle

light

sends fleeting

shadows

dancing across my face and I

am reminded of the

spark

between your touch and

my skin.

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"To love another person is to see the face of God" and that is what I see when you look at me. I like the way you look at me. Perhaps there is a reason I feel the same joy in my bones when I am in your arms as I feel when I pray. There is a certain kind of warmth and security safety sanctuary in both. Every day you remind me that art is not just paint on a canvas or charcoal smudges on my face; it is love, poetry, symphonies, soft skin, warm fuzzies, late nights, deep kisses, the way two bodies fit together, existing. I'll be your Starry Night if you'll be my Vincent van Gogh.

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You know how sometimes you read a bit of literature or see a piece of art or watch a movie or hear a piece of music, and suddenly you realize that there was a real person behind what you’re looking at? How someone’s emotions and actions strung together what’s before you? And then at that point it no longer matters what the thing itself is, you’re simply overcome with this intensity of how it’s just so beautiful because of everything behind it, it’s meaning and depth and how it got to where it is now.


I was having a discussion about religion with an old friend who’s a particularly gifted musician once. I watched, over a course of several years, this friend transition from a young atheist into the strongest, most firm believer in Christ that I know. I asked her how she could now be so confident in her faith, and this is what she told me (I’m paraphrasing - forgive me Glory).


“When I hear a beautiful song, a string of chords or a perfect harmony, when I look at the sky at dawn or dusk or in the middle of the night and I see the colors and the stars and the clouds, when I’m eating my dad’s food or reading some shit about the incredible lives of the musicians around me, when I feel like I’m falling for some sexy guy with swoopy hair and gorgeous eyes — when I look at these things, I can’t imagine that there’s anything less than a God who could have possibly created them. And He made them for me.”


Like I said, that was very much paraphrased and written in my interpretation of my good friend’s manner and voice (hehe) but the meaning is there. Every. Single. Damn. Thing. Is. Beautiful.

And we take it all for granted every fucking day.


Listen to the music.
 Look at the people and the world around you.
 Love. Love freely and often.
 Actually stop and smell the goddamn roses.
 Smile at strangers. Smile at your friends. Smile just for the sake of smiling.

Because life is beautiful.

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20

to-morrow morning I will get up bags in hand and under my eyes I will face the world and I will run away with friends much faster than I–

looking for freedom and only finding a slightly different cage.

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21

“Paint me a picture,” he says, One to remind him of how things once were when things aren’t what they are now anymore. I guess you don’t know a memory is a dangerous thing; Or maybe you do, and you couldn’t care less. Paint onto canvas, a heart, faces, places, her, you, them, me, so many beautiful melodious melancholy mesmerizing memories in white, blue, green, yellow, black, brown, pink. A knife of silver dripping with burgundy.

Paint on a canvas is a dangerous thing.