I used to wear my rosary like a necklace, but only because it glowed in the dark. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Please do not remove or otherwise alter this credit, even if the code is modified. Thank you.
I am friends with a giving tree, and he is surrounded by girls asking for twigs and leaves. He cries at the pain when some of his bark snaps off, but only on the inside; he dares not complain to those he loves. He turns to me for help. He hurts, but what can he do? He loves those who hurt him, and those who hurt him love him back, even if it's selfish love. I sit under his shade, though spotty it may be for lack of leaves, to help think of a solution of any sort, but I can't think of any consolation save one: I give him a branch of my own.
Even if it means somebody else must curl in the corner of their bedroom whispering to themselves Why me? Why this?, there is something comforting in knowing that one is not alone. Of course, even if it is knowing you are not alone, there is still distress to be found in that happiness. You said, "Hey, I have that, too," and you saw emotion quickly covered by a polite mask. What if you had seen what occured later, held my wrist up to your ear and heard the joy singing in my veins and having found somebody like me? Would you have found comfort knowing that you could have an instant friend who understood an underlying struggle that is omnipresent even though she doesn't even know your name? Would you have found unease in the same thing? The only things found more than the glee and relief in finding somebody like oneself are perhaps the grief that somebody else has shed the same tears and, even more so, the fear that they may find the jagged border between mask and skin. Sometimes that mask is all one has.
♦ he'll never be that guy: captain of the football team, straight-a student, making the entire cafeteria laugh at his punchlines. the popular girls will never make jokes to him about his six pack or compare the size of their hands, laughing and mingling their hair as all of it gets twirled between fingers. he is not a model citizen and my relatives would cringe at his humour, though he accompany it all by playful grins and kind eyes. if i were to say his name to my friends, i would be met with laughter or confused stares, because would i not prefer to fancy somebody popular? and yes, i'm sure all of the populars are lovely, and i'm sure relating to quater-back-x-nerdy-girl stories would be cute, and i'm sure others' approval would make life easier. but him. never mind his status; his smile is what makes my dimples come out to see the sun and my shoulders remember what it's like to not bear their burden, and sure, i know, he'll never be that guy—but i'd like him either way. ♦ Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Please do not remove or otherwise alter this credit, even if you modify the format. Thank you.
♦ ♦ Why are you so hard to write about? I can swear to any deity above that I've tried my fair share of times, more than I've tried for anyone before, but it's as if you are an enigma to every word I know. You don't like big words, I know, and I've learnt that they don't like you either. I can list the things I like about you and I swear I know how to write actual good poetry, but everything I manage to manufacture appears to have escaped the hands of ten-year-old me who never really understood poetry anyway. Still, I keep picking my pen back up even after having thrown it across the room. I want to do a part of you justice, even if not you as a whole. Perhaps the way you smile, or the way the skin over your eyes is raised as if to create a pedestal for your eyebrow. Your laugh, defaulting as a snicker. The way you slip easy from humour into humorous compassion. But I can't do anything. All I can manage is a list of stupid things I like about a boy who is living a life I wish I had the guts to follow. No matter the stuggle that lies behind it, however, this list is the most beautiful one I have every written. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Please do not remove or otherwise alter this credit, even if the format is modified. Thank you.
It's not that I dislike people at all; I love being around others when we're on the same energy level, but it's just easier being alone. Alone, I don't have to worry constantly about if I'm the one secretly whispered about to other friends whose expectant eyes make my tongue stumble over itself. Alone, I don't have to keep score about how many more interactions I've initiated more than all of the other people in my life. Alone, I don't have to sit through three-people conversations for which I might as well melt into the wall. Being solitary isn't the easiest practice; I do get lonely from time to time. The thing is, having a longing heart is better than having one that is reaching its hands out to old friends only to have them slapped back with disdain. I don't make an easy choice when I don't bother trying to muster a "hello," but doing anything else is nothing less than self-destructive.
Your eyes were outlined with red, bracing themselves for tears that did not come. Though your eyes were stone dry, you were stone silent and still for the effort. I was doing my best not to stare at you until you, but I hope you didn't think that, when I did, my eyes were filled with pity; they were not looking down at you, but looking up. All I wanted to do in that moment was extend my arms in comfort. It was for both of our sakes that I didn't, yet I still feel sorry for having not.
There’s a small cardboard box in my brain: a special one, where I can forget everything I put in there, so it doesn’t kill me from the inside. It works beautifully and holds all of the woes I want badly enough to hide from myself. I can live from day to day without fear of my self-manufactured toxins. There is one problem, though, which lays in its integrity; it is made but out of cardboard. My secrets and fears are a dense fluid, making the cardboard sag at its middle and darken with saturation, and sometimes it trickles out in a small stream from the box’s open corner if I don’t pay attention. It leaves scars on the floor that burn my eyes, but I daren’t more than whimper. I will save that for when I slip under its brown flaps one secret too many and its entire structure collapses, leaving me to just brace myself for the corrosion of all I could never stand to face.
Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning ; do not remove or otherwise alter this format, no matter any alterations to the format. Thank you. ~ I'm tired of hearing people say that giving up is always a bad thing. Giving up on twisted stomachs and heavy thoughts would not be a bad thing. Leaving the frustrations that manifest in short fingernails and angry scrawls on lined pages behind me would be good, just as it would be great if I could stop the racing thoughts, always analysing and reanalysing sentences, trying to decipher an encrypted message that might not even exist. Giving up on you would be the best thing I could ever do, and God knows it's hard enough to try without discouragement. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning ; do not remove or otherwise alter this format, no matter any alterations to the format. Thank you.
When I am screaming to myself, "Just let me live," one might think I am talking to some external power exerting restriction over me: smothering parents, toxic friends, an omnipresent God. And while it's true that I cry to the universe at night over things that they control, they are just binding my wrists; I am always the one pressing the knife to my throat. The way my stomach twists itself when I'm in the presence of others like it's a damp towel to be wrung, the way my mouth deftly sews itself shut so that my thoughts may never roam, the way my legs will never hold a fighting stance because all they've been taught to do is run, that is all me. The sun and moon, forever looking over my actions, have long since realised it, so maybe it's time that I do too.
❤ I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Do not remove or otherwise alter this credit, even if you modify the format.
A DISTANT SHIP, SMOKE ON THE HORIZON. YOU ARE ONLY COMING THROUGH IN WAVES. YOUR LIPS MOVE, BUT I CAN'T HEAR WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning ; do not remove or otherwise alter this credit.
Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning ; do not remove, alter, or move the format credit. you can tell me to be myself and speak my mind all you want, but just wait until i let loose my tongue; you'll see your mistake then. Format credit goes to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning ; do not remove, alter, or move the format credit.
Format credit to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Do not remove this credit under any circumstances please and thank you. xx When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them. Format credit to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning. Do not remove this credit under any circumstances please and thank you.