❤

I tell you, I tell you not.

I love you, and I think you love me.

But that's how far it gets, so I put it in poetry.

I write about you sometimes.

Hide my truth within similes, metaphors, and rhymes.

Of hushed conversations in a crowded place

Memorizing each thing so I can later retrace.

You ask me how I feel when I'm with you.

Like I'm in a cellophane bubble of a soft pink hue,

La vie en Rose

A dopamine doze

You ask me what I think of you.

Words to which I wish I knew

Universe pulled a few invisible strings,

Put you in my life to change everything.

We stand inches close yet light years away.

Cliche!

We stay long enough to touch, not enough to hold

The world is unfair, or so I'm told.

So I pretend your smile doesn't put me in slumber.

Memorize lines on your hand as one would with numbers.

You ask me why I hold back. I say I'm scared.

What I hold back is what I'm scared of:

It's not being unable to find the right words for what I feel

It's being able to say the right words and never heal.

I love you, but I don't tell.

I try to show you, like casting a gentle spell.

Through metaphors and rhymes

And words that were written by dead poets sometimes.

Doesn't a word look weird when we stare at it long enough? Doesn't the alphabet look slightly meaningless when we write it over and over again? Here's one: CLING C-LING, C-L-ING, C-L-I-NG, C-L-I-N-G. Does this make sense? It doesn't sound like a word the more you say it. It doesn't look like a word the more you write it. The curves and strokes, dots and dash!

Isn't it how the name of the people you love changes? At some point, it stops being a name, a word that belongs to them. It becomes a feeling that belongs to you. It stops sounding like a word or a random string of letters. It becomes a string of feelings you cling to when life falls apart. Their name on your phone screen stops looking like a word. Every notification and phone call conjures an image of them looking at you and smiling before you can even look at it twice. That particular string of curves and strokes, dots and dash Once belonged to them and is now beloved by you Which you randomly write in the air because it gives you comfort.

Sometimes we take names for granted without realizing the power it holds. When all it takes is that one word to appear on your screen to get you through another tiring day.

Harry: are you taken?

Draco: Yeah, for granted

when I started reading the grisha trilogy i was all for darklina because of all the shit I’d seen about mal and the darkling on the internet

like I’d been fully led to believe that mal was this bland 2d and controlling character in the trilogy but then my man came out with line like this

and

or

how about

and THIS

and this is just a few lines from ruin & rising

seriously? I was supposed to be shipping my girl alina with emo darkles when hunk MALYEN ‘MALEWIFE’ ORETSEV was right there? PLEASE

At that point in my life where I FINALLY understand why people cry when they hear certain songs.

Exhibit A:

Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. […] Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay.

july 15 // incinerate

(hears a song lyric) this would make a great all-lower case fanfiction title

Surpassing mess

Something's haunting me from within

With teeth, claws, and an evil grin.

Unlike what the movies show

Mine doesn't mess with lights and photos.

I don't live in a haunted house,

Nor do I own the dybbuk box.

So why am I troubled when I try to sleep?

Why is my sanity so hard to keep?

Do you know what's even peculiar?

It's how much all this feels familiar!

They've been living within me all this while

Things I shoved down and never reconciled.

My brain can be a surpassing mess

Make the entire horror genre seem witless.

Because I don't live in a haunted house

Nor do I own the dybbuk box

But do you hear a girl constantly weep?

Until I finally fall asleep.

book dedications are so tender here is this piece of art i made for an audience of thousands. but really every word is for you