starry-skies-weary-eyes - Tumblr blog

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Little Cafe

The cafe is just... there. It sits like a cat curled in a corner, appearing in small places like between the small grocery store and the haberdashery. Step inside and you will find that though the door swings smooth as anything, it still makes a contented creak. Ghosts reside in the sugar, whispering helpful nice things, and the little spiders will wave at you before continuing their weaving of a positive quote in the rafters. This week’s is “The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in King's palaces.” They mean well, despite not hitting the mark sometimes. Sit down with a drink. Hot chocolate? Lemon tea? Take your pick. Don’t be afraid of the spoons, sometimes they just feel like rising out of the cups before dipping back in to gently stir your hot beverage. At every table there is a cat, which will sit at your feet and purr quietly. Pay them no mind if you wish, but head scratches and treats are greatly appreciated. Take a break. Crack open that book you’ve been meaning to read. The tables may waltz around to the rhythm of the music playing, so do try not to fall out of your chair when it follows suit. When you leave say goodbye to the raven by the window. It will remember you.

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

We are washing dishes side by side, soapy water running down our arms. Streetlight filters hazily in through the kitchen window, and the sound of a movie playing on television drifts in sleepily. On the fridge, a magnet holds up another reminder from Jaz: Buy eggs!!!

“I’m just saying, it would have made much more sense if he’d gone out through the back door! The entire situation could have been avoided if- what are you looking at?” She’s looking at me with an indescribable expression.

After a moment of staring, she grins. “Dumbasss.”

I flick water in her general direction. “So I’m the dumbass? Not the person who tried to warm up a plastic cup in the microwave last-“ I squawk indignantly as she grabs me on the back of the neck with her wet hand. She knocks our foreheads together and smiles. “We both are.”

In the distance, you can vaguely hear the television, where Stitch is saying “This is my family. I found it, all on my own. It's little, and broken, but still good. Yeah, still good.”

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

“I don’t understand how you can fail science”

News flash i dont know either u think i was trying? I’ve literally defined myself with “good at science” and lost my love for it in the process. Fuck you.

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

you couldn’t categorize it, when you were younger. you didn’t get hit, after all. just ate the words that spilled over the floor until it made you sick. your teachers all said your writing was “particularly dark” but nothing concerning. you carefully clipped admissions of grief into jokes about how houses feel like splinters. you would walk around with your jaw clenched. what is it you ached for? your home was “safe enough”, wasn’t it? yelling never killed a person. you’d tell other people my parents are just strict. you’d hear over and over again what they sacrificed for you, make it worth it.

when you loved someone, how were you supposed to know any different? your friends and partners like your parents; twisting your words so you seem “too sensitive”. it is bad to have opinions, to want things. you give in because you don’t want the argument. you hear someone call your mental health “delicate.” you cry but there’s not really anything to cry about, isn’t that the heart of it. people tell you that there is much worse going on in the world, get over it. so what that you are alone and he never picks up the phone, that he’s flaky, that he only shows up when he wants something. so what that she keeps you awake threatening to hurt herself; your mother used to say you hurt me when you act like this. there is nothing beautiful here, but what do you have to complain about? there is no red flag. just an empty valley, and dirt, and your heart like a canon in your chest.

many years later, in adulthood, after therapy, you find yourself crying over a broken plate. you find yourself having a panic attack because you’re running fifteen minutes late. you find yourself confused when television shows have tender moments between parents and the kids that they raise - are they supposed to love each other? was it always supposed to be this way?

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Some important messages.

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Today in class I screamed “Falsehood” during a debate, full Logan-style. It felt good.

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My mind is really just a swamp with dragonflies and mud with faint echoes of Ben Platt and Sleeping At Last.

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Not your birthday poem

I want to write you a poem for your birthday but I have to wait until I’m feeling softer and less hungry and I can tell you that you’re like a garden or the right hand of a piano melody

Today I can only tell you that you taste like a mouthful of river water, and that you feel like the scraped knee I got from the rocky bottom

Your birthday poem will be about the baby birds you nursed all night until you were aching with love and exhaustion

But this poem is about what our friend said when we found the hatchlings half dead in the chimney

That her parents taught her that in the world there was good, there was evil, and there was wild

If I would love you then I would love you wild

Frenzied

Thighs trembling and slick with black oil, with black ink

Love down to your marrow

Some days you feel like something stuck in my teeth (you love to write about teeth)

And I hate that I can smell when you’ve been in a room

A shiver an ache but an ache not in my head but my stomach like hunger: I’m only myself when I’m wanting

Everything they write about you is also about me and also about you

I get nasty when you insist on being soft I can see that you aren’t all soft that’s for your birthday poem

I don’t want to be holy I don’t want to be tender unless it’s tender like the flesh that you sink your wolf teeth into

For your birthday poem maybe I will file those canines down but in this poem I want a bloody lip

A dream I have not had but would like to:

You a princess with a blighted heart and me your gladiator

Sent into the ring to fight your demons in mismatched combat

I’ve never felt more alive than when they’re snarling and circling and I’m bracing myself for the first strike, spear and shield ready

Except for maybe I’ll feel more alive when you dance into the ring kicking up dust

Cut through the numb silence of the spectating crowd

And hold me covered in sweat and iron and demon blood

And kiss me electric home again

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Can we have more chontent? thank you when you can.

Unrestrained Summer Fun

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Sometimes in online lessons I say that my mic is broken because that’s easier to say and more acceptable than “I slept late last night finishing work that I need to do and worrying about every mistake I’ve made and so now I’m tired and I don’t know the answer but don’t want to look stupid which is why I’m not answering your question out loud or turning on my mic”, y’know?

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Above, the bluebells chime, and the mushroom watch over you as you nap. The neighbourfish murmur soothing lullabies. Stay, they hum. You are safe. The moss is soft, and you are content; there will be no pain or anger to stain your pure whiteness. This is your world. One day you will leave them to wither as crisp and beautiful as an autumn dawn. But not yet. One day you will run, wanting for something more, screaming, aching to find something out there. Every time, you will be met with cold, hard glass until the day it finally shatters. For now , there is no space beyond, and children are told to stop screaming.

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

What must I do to be the owner of an antique store that’s in a corner that you can find only when you least expect it, and the inside of which smells like old wood and old things and there’s a cat that comes and goes and no one really knows how the shop is surviving because no one seems to buy anything yet the shop’s just always there

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

A gentle reminder: In group work, just because you can do everything for the group, it does not mean that you should, and neither should you be expected to.

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I’m feeling hollow again. Empty. Muted. The world is cotton and Panic at the Disco blasting at half volume. You could drain me, peel off my skin and find a hole there. Add a fretboard. String me up. Pluck a gentle tune. Maybe then I’ll be making something beautiful.

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

[starry-skies-weary-eyes]

Self love is like clothing, sometimes. Some days it stretches out behind you like a satiny dress train. Some days it hugs your legs like your favourite pair of jeans. Some days it swirls and flirts with the back of your legs like a skirt. But some days it clings too tight and feels like it isn’t enough and reveals too much of what you would rather stay hidden and you hate it with a vengeance; you wonder why you ever decided to put it on. But let it break down into stardust and reform the next day, choose something new that you like, until you find that it feels like a cold sweater on a warm day, until it feels just right. Self love is like clothing.