whiskeyatdawn

[whiskeyatdawn]

tremble~

so tantalizing, your touch sends the fairest twinkle, a tingle, throughout the taught skin of my inner thighs. this tug, this pulling at my tangled heart, my tenderness is truly teeming. our talks, full of tacit tact, a taboo of sorts tailored to my thrill. my takeaway is that your technique, so tenacious, will make me reach  the threshold, i tremble beneath your twisted tongue and am thoroughly transcended into a territory only experienced by  gods and tsars. **still in progress**

[whiskeyatdawn]

how often and more importantly, WHERE do you back up all of your art? do you have a backup? are all of your writings, musings, photos, prints, etc. saved elsewhere?

[whiskeyatdawn]

credit: coshamie

[whiskeyatdawn]

a collector, of sorts-

i’ve broken a lot of hearts, but none more-so than my own- i can’t apologize the way i used to because i’m just so used to  being the one who has to  say “sorry,” i’ve said it a half million times already. i wear my apologies around my neck like a noose, i just haven’t stepped off my own ledge i am full of potential energy full of potential heartbreak and almost ready to use my last apology  on another’s heart- throwing it atop my ever-growing pile, like dirty laundry, always growing and never being shown the kindness of becoming clean. i air my dirty laundry with my pile of thrown-out  broken-down hearts wearing my apology-noose-necklace i can’t imagine how anyone can stand to be around someone so broken.

[whiskeyatdawn]

i lick sorry’s across  my lips, i beg for forgivness with a quiver, with a nod, i plead- that we can forgive, forget, surrender.

[whiskeyatdawn]

speechless-

i feel my words slipping from me, cold and eel-like i’m moving across or toward some distant shoreline grasping for my words as if it were the air in my lungs. reaching, reaching i tug at the innermost cords of my being a poorly veiled attempt at finding the loose thread that will unravel me and cause all of my  pent-up syntax to come spilling out of all of my edges. wearing my past like a tattered sock, an annoyance i can’t get rid of  for fear of losing warmth, it remains surface level of the stories i can’t seem to bring myself to write. and somehow through all of the nuisance that is overwhelmingly omni-present i remain in my own sullen silence, still riding out the waves of my own self doubt and indignation.

[whiskeyatdawn]

hypnagogia-

in those quiet moments between sleep  and wakefulness, the hazy fog that wraps around you like a sheath, those seconds before you truly grasp your surroundings- those are the moments  in which i think of you. i dream of your presence, of you still being here with me. not in sickness, but in full health, you are with me the way you always were. in my dreams, you are always unwell and i am never able to save you from your looming fate. i see your sad, sunken cheekbones and the way  your eyes were overtaken by the colour of rainclouds instead of their familiar blue. and when i am awake, i can barely remember you at all. i hold onto our memories like cherished treasure but, like a relished bounty they have become increasingly rare to dig up. i long for those few, sweet ticks of serenity before i am jarred awake and remember i will remain today and every day in your absence.

[whiskeyatdawn]

legacy~

i may never be published again, and i’ve decided that’s ok too because my pages don’t have to be immortal in order for me to remember them and hopefully leave a semblance of an impact on a few  that love  or once loved me. i may never be the version of success that is written about in newspapers, but i am alright with whatever outcome comes my way. i am perfectly content with never having my content read  and re-read. as long as i am writing, it’s all that really matters the only effect i need to have is mine and mine alone.

[whiskeyatdawn]

more or less, i am learning to be more or less rather than nothing at all. i would rather sit and ponder at something more or less nothing than to sit idly and think of the absence  of all light circumnavigating every ounce of feeling that could or might or once  has been

[whiskeyatdawn]

“and at once i knew i was not magnificent”

you see, the thing is, i have always known that i am merely ordinary i am not made of stardust there is nothing special in the way my bones jut out of my skin. my hair doesn’t glimmer in the light just right you can’t fall into my eyes like oceans you don’t see constellations  in my skin. i am and that is quite enough for opulence is for the wealthy and i have no riches to offer. i am enough whether or not that is enough for everyone else is not of my concern. at some point you have to look at your reflection in the sheen of stagnant  water and not think of the inspiring, poetic verses  that could be created. it’s okay to just be okay. and there’s more beauty in simplicity and fewer words and saying less that can hold more splendor than any poetry.

[whiskeyatdawn]

better than-

you have to stop comparing yourself  to beautiful girls with clear faces, and long legs, and crimson hair. you have learned that the beauty of others is unattainable even though it is staring right back at you every day. you have to stop wishing to be  all of the things that you are not, because whether or not you realize it you’re stealing the best parts of you and giving your power to everyone else.

you have to stop caring so much about the things that they say or that they do because you words are lost when you write the stories of countless others-

you’re drowning in  their dialect, their ideas, their influence and their looks.

[whiskeyatdawn]

[whiskeyatdawn]

nope.

i’m not gonna write you some sappy love poem on this shitty hallmark holiday. i love you, you know this, and i don’t need to  prove it to you with  my words, because i’ve given you those same words all of the other 364 days of the year, and this day is just as insignificant, or special as any other.  so, i’m not going to  apologize you won’t receive my love notes, not today. you’re better than that and it’s so much more fun to say ‘fuck you’  to the man on some corporate capitalistic bullshit kind of day.

[whiskeyatdawn]

i finally figured out how to use my straight razor. goodbye, pink tax. you won’t be missed.

[whiskeyatdawn]

self-esteem, a  sickness that settles in the depths of your stomach

makes you yearn for the love given from too fractured men on street corners with their crumpled bills & their corner store grins

that dirty south blood, caught between the overflowing gutter & a pack of newports can soothe your cotton mouthed love

(because you don’t have to fill the gaps in conversation when there’s something in your mouth)

it has you swaying your hips awkwardly as a girl then inappropriately as a woman 

it has his tongue reach the tender parts of you when you call his Name it makes you angry when your ass no longer fits in your

favorite pair of jeans

it has you run run run run when you should really stay.

it has its volume low, it waits for you. 

[whiskeyatdawn]

i will always be the other woman, always be the wanted, not loved always the hunted, the haunted by those loving, leaving me

i don’t want your baggage, you don’t want mine, confirm it by telling you i’m not the marrying kind and the men, they believe me because it’s easier to believe than to fight the ghosts surrounding me than loving me unconditionally

i am the girl perpetually smiling at the bar,  smiling in the train seat, plane seat next to you.  strike up a conversation and follow you home,  to your hotel,  turn off your phone. alone at the wedding,  friend of the bride,  dancing alone,  until you pull me aside,  away from the rest of the wandering eyes

i will always be that woman, the other woman, the one without a name. you’ll know her by her smile,  her happiness, her shame. do not try to tame her.

[whiskeyatdawn]

reblog with the last song you listened to in the tags