Cringe

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You are a mess, wine-stained mind, you never let them inside. You harbor emotions I cannot understand, conceal heartbreak in the punches you throw like your knuckles bleed in release. You are a hail storm I did not see coming, yet the snow has never felt more comforting. Continue reading

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My Eighth Grade French Teacher

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My eighth grade French teacher smoked cigarettes out back near the football field every morning. Heaving in heavy breaths he’d cough like his throat was on fire, fumes in his lungs. He drank like the skies inside his eyes had fallen, clouds of silver smoke on his lashes would linger until they looked more like fragile tears wiped by trembling thumbs before brought into account by the twenty students who wanted more than anything to leave the classroom they were stuck in.

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Ink

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Boys with lungs collapsed and egos bruised, if you love her then you are lucky because the girls like to ride their bikes down paths carved in childhood scars, picture perfect smiles framed on walls melted like crayon wax in colors that stuck to the wallpaper of her bedroom. Had paper thin dreams that she learned would blow away with the wind in her chest someday. She often folds into herself until salty tears spill like waterfalls carved in her cheekbones. And if you dream about her than you are lucky. Because most of us lost her before she even waved, hello. She walks in fear of leaving behind footprints and if you love her than you are lucky. Because most of us are too drowned out to believe that she’s still got the fire in her heels. Paper dreams ablaze, she brings them back to life. So if you love her, I hope you know that you are lucky.-H

The Weight Of My Youth

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Wrap me up in polythene plastic. Saran wrap around my lungs, and I do this to myself too often.
Build cages of fractured bones and punctured skin, music to my ears the flattening of thoughts that burn up in my head. I could let my youth take the blame, the hollow timeframe of adolescence carrying the weight of every reckless choice I had made. From fifteen to eighteen, regret built a home inside my skull, a parasite I could not rid my body off. I’m still trying, trying to fight it.

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Reflections of Self-deception

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Prone to self-depreciation, the contours of your body glowing in fear, radiant sparks of colorless misery. Fingertips frozen blue, pins and needles pricking skin like never before.
And I wonder why your hands tremble the way they do. I know that we are burning out, slowly. You fail to control your thoughts as they dance against the fickle walls of chambers in your mind. Try to bring out amusement from all the self-loathing, try to bring out freedom in your footsteps pretend that you are not suffocating inside a bubble of clear glass agony. You wake up to be tortured mentally, before going to bed in sheer disbelief of having survived another day under the torment of the summer sun, skin blistering, gleaming ball of fire. You never liked the sun very much. -H

Mysteries Etched In Skin

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Hung on to the sleeves of your sweaters like they were asphalt concrete, dark and glittery leading me to the other side.
Your gaze pouring lightning into my lungs, lightning in my eyes and I could feel my veins shifting beneath my skin.
You speak in colors, your breath laced with refined sliver, rich caramel gold poetic, static to my ears.

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The Taste Of You

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I am frantically brushing my teeth at 3 in the morning trying to get the taste of your tongue out of my mouth, but I can only go so far before my gums begin to bleed and my teeth start to ache the way my spine often does under the heavy, heavy weight of your hands. You liked to place them on my back. My mother is sitting in the stairway, staring at the dim white light escaping from under the bathroom door, she’s going to ask me. Why?

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