My Mind Is Like A Goddamn River. Not Serene Or Calm Or Peaceful, But Every Thought Rushing By Too Fast

"i never see you getting angry, when i was your age i used to be so, so angry"

perhaps we're more similar then i think mother, i don't think I've stopped screaming internally since the 7th grade, the amount of violence it took to convert my tears into deep-rooted anger, but i listen to your sad past anyways, unflinchingly, all my anger directed towards my grandmother, and her grandmother, and hers, a long line of cruel women, who in turn built crueler versions of themselves. i can't tell you about how each time i look into a mirror, i see not myself, but all the crueler and harder versions of me, and i see you, the woman i swore not to be when i was little.

i cursed you for sacrificing so much, but I'm older now mama, now i feel the same rage as you do and i curse at how you are all i could be in the future, with the same screaming daughter inside.

and when the writer types out the final full stop, we stop too. for you and I, were only a 'we' within these numbered pages bound by a frail paperclip. what we search for is eternal, and the writer tried, tried so hard but I guess we weren't just meant the be, the fates cut our string, the paperclip was bound to break.

you said i spoke like a poet,

and yet when i try to write,

your name is what spills out of my lips.

infinity is such a difficult concept to comprehend because humans aren't used to the idea of forever. everyday, something ends in our lives. we can't imagine anything not-ending that is real. our lives are defined by endings. anything related to us will aways end. we will die, another ending. infinity challenges the whole notion of the cycle of everything as we know it.

When the rocks seem miles away and the shore steeping and breathless, the desire to keep falling and falling overcomes the cause, when the sky flew faster than you, all the light was just blinding, never golden and when you lay by the riverbank, scarlet red seeping into clear eyes, scarlet red from where carnations grew, only does your breath turn tragic, turning poetic, when love struck jewels emerge, careful fingers touch the rubies, and this is all the power I have, to only lament words I cannot fathom and trace the fall over and over till only golden ichor flows anew.

"asshole" i try to call you with all the conviction i can muster. how dare you tell me about her? I hate you i repeat and i repeat it till i'm sick. will saying it enough make it true?

How can you call him a monster when he has my heart gently cradled between his cupped palms? So much anguish yet such a gentle hold on me. You hear your thoughts from others, and yet haven't seen the way his fingertips softly trace my neck. Although I suppose, if he had wanted to crush my heart I would have let him. How often do you witness such a sweet creature turn to pure rage from the depths of his soul?

just the feeling of ink stains on your fingers.

take me back to when I wished on eyelashes, full of childish hope, when I used to ask for toys for christmas.

I find an eyelash now, and wish for everything to turn out okay. I don't believe anymore, but wishing on eyelashes just fills me with longing for what was and what never will be.

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say