Life Should Be A Long Drawn Affair Of Yellow.

Maybe we will not be anything that aches when it is gone.

-A.G.

I want to write a poem for you

so I did this thing awhile back and it’s been a hot minute, so I’m restarting it

Reblog this post and I will stalk your tumblr and write a poem based on your aesthetic

When I was little, I used to stay away from matches because I was sure I would set myself on fire. What I didn't realise was that I've been burning for a long time. You know how they say you're a sum of everyone you've met; everyone you've come across? I think I'm other people, more than I am myself. I still remember the phone number of my friend from the third grade. What do I do with the memory of that? That's the problem. I remember too much. I can never forget: numbers and people. I am a walking ache, I am a fresh scar; I am open wounds: always aching. I am hurt. My happiness is pretense and my sadness is a default. I have been hurt too many times and I can never forget it. I never remember my happiness. I remember too much of what went wrong and too much of all that hurt me; that's the problem. What do I do with all this hurt? I carry a lifetime of hurt. I think I will age backwards; I already hurt so much at so little, I am sure there can be no way this gets worse so I have to hope this will get better. As the years grow, I will grow. I will be taller when others are starting to hunch. How could I not? Where do you go from this ache? I am the ache I feel and I am the thing that hurts my heart. My happiness is always a pretense. I am always sad during the happiest moments of my life. Someone called me arrogant and I laughed at their face. I think some people are always sad. I am always other people and I have never been myself and I do not know what to do with that. I am a stranger in my head and my face is always a foreign image that surprises me. I remember too much. I don't know how to not. How do you forget? I don't hate myself, I just don't know what to do with her sometimes. She is a child and she is so grown up and strong and she is always grieving the loss of some part of herself.

It was a pleasure to write with you Julie! (@julesgems) :))

pass the happy! 🌻🌈 when you receive this, list 5 things that make you happy and send this to the last ten people in the notifications!

1. Standing under a tree when it is pouring down.

2. A good book that is starting to feel like home, like I can come back to it and it will still be here.

3. Finally getting the thing to click in my head- the theory in Chemistry or the law in Physics when it suddenly just becomes common sense, when it just hits you after you've been running around trying to read it over and over again and understand it.

4. Tea on cold days brewed at 3 a.m. to keep me warm company.

5. Writing a poem that I am proud of because I just know that's a good one, I worked hard for that one.

Bonus:

Applying for jobs/internships you thought you weren't qualified for but you get them. They let you have it because you're young and you're good and you will learn. They believe in you.

I challenge you to pass the happy! 🌻🌈

Anyone who has read this, pass the happy! :)

I think we're terrified of being forgotten. I think that as soon as an ounce of intelligence entered our being, our first instinct was to scratch walls and make art out of sharp sticks and stones; We wanted it to be known that we were here.

Perhaps when Adam ate the Apple he was more relieved at being able to die than he was afraid of God's anger, perhaps even the Gods hate all this immortality business.

We are here to die. And perhaps the only reason we aren't relieved at that is because we might just forget to do anything but continue dying, we might just forget to live.

So here we are: scratching walls or ourselves, trying to make it become something other than our own coffins at the end of this journey.

The dark abyss was enticing me, it was calling and it took everything to not go meet her mid-way; Let her swallow me whole.