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
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?
You make the sky blush
Irises erupting In shades of burning brown
Misery, in multitudes
Dripping from the cracks in your soul.
Unsettling truths that seem to shine through
Curtains of all your stories
Stitched in silk.
I like messy notebooks blooming with paragraphs mismatched. Words etched on skin, raw, thought provoking metaphors breaking barriers with illuminating descriptions of the things we fail to disguise. Truth, highlighted by the ugliness of life. I like to write with the sole purpose of messing with your mind. I’ll take you down labyrinths constructed with walls that bleed my thoughts and watch the fear rise in your heart. Then laugh it off.
Fingers drumming against the dust on his desk, words scribbled across a Starbucks napkin stained with coffee along the edges.
And he swore to have his body inked by the age of eighteen, hidden under bittersweet smiles with sympathy laced in his breath and nicotine in his blood.
You grew up reading Shakespeare under streetlights and pale grey skies, celebrated and seemingly wise drunks like Hemingway were the occupants of your time. Polaroids in your pockets of warm days running into shops that sold records from the 90’s your friends never liked. Blueberry bubblegum sticky under the seats of your dads new car. He brought rage disguised in hugs of all the things you ever wanted. Bulbs of fluorescent green neon, sweatshirts that swallow your hands accompanied by dry skin and hefty frames of Harry-Potter-like-glasses. Acne, horrendous bangs and embarrassing yearbook photos leading you to messy desks abundant in thin yellow paper and black ink scribbles those you pray will one day hold more worth. So you tell yourself life is just beginning with hands that shake too much and lips that bleed between the force of your teeth, knees that turn the shade of a dull purple every once in a while and bruises that you couldn’t care less about. So you close your apparently very boring brown eyes and sit on your quivering hands and you tell yourself, life is just beginning.-H
Coiled so deeply in the beds of our misfortunate teenage lives as depression hangs from dark grey skies and I just want you to be alright. And I know you’re just looking for a high that can make you forget the need to jump from your bedroom window on the fourth floor just so you can hear the crack in your bones when they successfully split into two against the concrete as rose red fills up the gaps in the sidewalk.