Darling we have been killing brain cells for way too long, blowing clouds of feelings unfiltered and so raw yet we still find ourselves blinded by the concept of better days and a reality in which we are less likely to end up burning out like cigarettes or worse we face the inevitable completely sober. Continue reading
I used to fill my bedroom up with vinyls carrying hope, voices that would bounce off the lavender walls and against the posters of my favorite tv shows.
Polaroids glued to the mirror on the verge of falling off this is how I used to see yesterday. Continue reading
I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve. Continue reading
By the age of thirteen I had been in six different schools, staying in each for up to three years at the most. It wasn’t because I was bullied or because I couldn’t make any friends but it was rather because my family just moved around a lot. Along with every school that changed so did the house we lived in and the street I had grown familiar to or the neighbors that were always nice. Continue reading
There are daydreams stuffed in my pockets, sparkling city lights under ashen pale skies and poetry painted along the street-lines. Continue reading
These Metaphors seem to be the only things stitching us up into one, we have been burning up at the edges lately and I fear the flames leading up to me. My father told me to let go of my dreams, Continue reading
I told you I could love you no more. So there you went turning your dreams into dust, mistakes choking up chimneys of all the things we could be. And you wished to scream in the face of mortality, I feared death almost as equally. Continue reading
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
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.
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