As I Flick Through My Camera Roll, Isn't It Strange How Everything Is Out Of Focus But You? How The Blood

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?

I’ve died so many deaths Just in this one life The pause between the beats Long enough, to make me question If you would curse me for pausing time Every time you said that you were mine And if I died then No other place so apt As when the stars would rather prefix If I died only then, You would’ve loved me for an entire life What tragedy is death, when I get the pick the forever I most yearn for? Nostalgia wouldn’t send its tariff for I would’ve been buried, and you would’ve been there at the funeral, And maybe for once, the grief would corrode your heart, And maybe for once I could ask you to stay, when after all there’s no one you could leave.

her i don't know who she is, but i know you've got a new her now. do you make her laugh? or worse, does she make you laugh? is she just as cynical as I was or is she just as bright as you are? you told me you got into college and all I could think was, does her hair curl downwards too? (congratulations) does she read and leave little notes in books or does she actually watch studio ghibli movies with you? god, do you guys fight? fight about whether everything you have is just a well balanced chemical reaction, about everything and nothing at all? are you happy? how did you move on? why do you still care? It meant the world to me when it happened, was it really just another sunday to you? I hope she's everything you actually deserve. no I can't possibly wish that for you. I can't hate you. I miss you terribly. I can't keep talking to you. I wish we were still friends. I wish we could be friends.

was it a sin to love you in our last lifetime my love, for which I am atoning for in this one?

And in the end, my darling solitude is always there to hold me, however cold his hugs are.

Retracing etched cartographies, Leaves trailing and blurring the green into the black of your hair Careful cuts from plucking, thorns left of dreadful affairs Hands tightly wound, because pressure stops the bleeding right? Chasing ripples down the gravel, Skipping stones over the mounds of tapestries we left unraveled, Crawling into shades of optimistically feverish illusions Of questions reduced to rueful omissions And what of the accidental glances you inhaled? Indifferently desperate to show how you could carry us both over the waves And what of the visions that the echoes from trivial flutters held? Just to be ignored, bandaged by what we thought words would mend The rain washed over the crushed leaves, Damaged paths patched over in light of New Year’s Eve Crossed out calendars, our tree’s now grown don’t you see? The tendrils now curl my hair, as if comforting a forgotten maybe. So here I remain, retracing blood inked cartography.

math exam was so good it made me think, don't get men get maths fr

so twirl me in the rain, and we'll ignore the words of warning the splattered raindrops spell out on the pavement, tie my hair with pink apologies and I'll refuse to believe the infinity of falling and distance the bows shape, maybe the roads we walked overtime really trace out a big, white X, drawing closer and closer together until the discoveries tear us apart. Do you think the stars we stare at are just a scene cut in our little cube, or maybe the writer meant to warn us of the internal collapse, the bright nebula before the fade? is the tragedy in knowing you my love, will fall or is it in knowing I allowed you to get too close? how trivial it is to be bound by the distance we cannot see, but maybe it's just as foolish of me to put such faith in these forming irregularities.

we are the next prometheus. will we end up like our own creator?

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.