Latest Posts by carpe-noctem-bitchess - Page 2

You’d think if time was drugged, futile seconds would wander till ether stilled hearts choking through echoing forever the roads we never walked remain trapped in the mirror house we find ourselves in, which is better, delirious visions against the never becoming futures? or bashing our heads fruitlessly against foreign reflections? screaming our voices hoarse, till the counted seconds come back home.

Silvery sands we walked over,

Footprints smitten but never forgotten,

Quite deftly destroying the perfect arches.

And how long shall we climb the ridges for?

When the light warms the time held in our fingers,

Running through steadily, yet fast,

Shuffling of only the crushed thorns,

Our bare feet sink into the

dissolved, ghostly essence of the past,

And we sit with the light, reminiscing the fall.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you said you’d run away with me if I wanted to, that you would hold my hand and I would lift my skirts and we’d escape this constant, vicious cycle. A blaze of hemorrhaging problems blooming like flowers in our trail, the vines did eventually engulf our little bubble of ignorance. So here I am, placing an eyelash on your pinkie, oh and if we could wish the world away. I don’t know quite a lot of things, I don’t know whether I should've ran, whether I should've dared to wish of you, should’ve should’ve should’ve done so much more or pulled back after fixing your hair. Is it bad, that sometimes I wish the thorns popped our little bubble earlier? Is it better you leave than asking if you would stay?

Do you remember when I almost walked in front of a speeding car and you pulled me back so hard I laughed? later that night you called yourself my guardian angel, which was funny because for you I'd kneel and join my hands to The Something I've never really believed in. But I didn't tell you that, instead I told you about how I never really believed in Santa or prince charming because Santa had my dad's handwriting and my mom taught me that to love is an afterthought, only fulfilled in heaven.

so you don't believe in heaven?

No, but would you come for me when it's 3 in the morning and I'm pouring out all of the ink I have on paper, hoping it covers the blood that runs 'neath? Let me slice my hand on your halo, when I need to feel human again? Would you engulf me in your wings and let me tell you about how sometimes when I cross a road I reach for a hand that isn't there?

I'll find you in heaven just to prove you wrong.

But wouldn't you rather be stretching your arms above to the eternity I can prove, I will prove, for I am twistedly determined to prove you wrong, right next to me?

but how would you know it's me next to you?

I'd know, I'd know you, I'd always know you, your branches would be the one's above mine when the rays get too harsh.

I like to know that I've maimed you. Is it sadistic of me to like the thought of you wondering where I am every time you cross a road? I like to know that I've maimed you, ever since you told me anything related to books reminds you of me. I like to know that every time there are scribbles in the margin of an old book, It'll remind you of my handwriting you called unreadable. If you visit The Louvre, my blood remains spilt there too, for the countless number of times I've told you about running away to France. Every time you look at paintings hung up in museums, you'll think of how I painted you our bleeding hearts. Is it sadistic to know you'll think of how I am doing on your thirty second birthday because I jokingly told you how I felt like I wouldn't make it to blow the candles on my thirtieth? Is it sadistic of me to cherish how you'll think of me every time you pick up a book, even when you're covered with sun spots and gray? tell me, would it make you wonder what could've been, if you wrote us just a bit differently? for I know that I've maimed you darling, but is it sadistic of me to not regret it at all?

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.

With only the irregular rush of cars playing notes in the dark air, I think of how I've lived a thousand lives before and no experience of mine will ever be unique. Yes, it must be a curse to never know enough, but isn't it a greater burden, how with every try, memory brushes out of reach and I'm born anew, scribbling different patterns over the same black slate, mere Sisyphus rolling the stone back up, but not quite, yet again. In another lifetime perhaps my fingers bled more amply over the long gone green, but I shall never know, shall I? Soon, I too will fade again, like the stars burnt into my blood and at the edge of dawn, I'll become yet another familiar turn in someone's long forgone hometown. The same lover, hopeful yet and despite the ghost heartaches from previous lives. familiar aches of circling and continuing about birth and rebirth, like the tissues after tissues used to wipe my tears, discarded and never thought of once again. The familiar homesick sounds of the city lull me to a serene embrace and I think, how only the brightest flash across the night sky is when the endless stars touch something achingly mortal.

Was icarus's fall so terrible after all? He would've died with a smile on his face, the sun all beautiful on him, setting him ablaze. Golden boy alight in his fall, golden are our kisses which set me ablaze and my wings burn in all their glory as you sweep my ashes 'neath the rug. The wax stuck to my lashes doesn't seem to scald your skin as much as I'd hoped and it seems fair to give it all up, for just a fleeting moment of your rays spreading across my skin, painting my lips, as if all the gold would hide the red underneath. Icarus must've surely died with a smile on his face, for I know I did in your smoldering embrace.

Pluto spun around the sun, until its light was too blinding, even for its love struck eyes to take. So it withdrew its orbit, pulling back as if leaving makes the river run softer, like leaving wouldn't marr the existence of anything else in its stead. Bask in the afterglow with me and tell me love, do the golden rays seem harsher from my window?

Blinded by the light is such a sick, dizzy and warm feeling. Like Apollo embracing you, but his rays slowly seeping in and burning your skin. Like gradually being pulled into sweet nothing, and the pain being felt as nothing but pure bliss.

We're drifting through the memories until we become the memoirs ourselves.

As I flick through my camera roll, isn't it strange how everything is out of focus but you? How the blood you spilt seems brighter than the blood I shed?

Singing softly as our ship sank

This time our serene notes of joy,

Escaping in bubbles of desperation,

As we cling on to the broken raft of our love.

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

We yearn for immortality, yet dismiss the ones who've danced with the elixir as mad.

Is life always struggling out of you? And the more you laugh, slowly, bit by bit, life echoes out of you, like the sound bubbling from your throat? And eventually it runs out, but I can't seem to find that sad, as you fade brightly, just like a dying comet in the night sky, short-lived but beautiful nonetheless.

You can't drag me away from cities, no matter the serenity of small towns and farmhouses. Something unspoken about it always attracts me, so many lives, bursting with energy, each fast and bright in its own galaxy, none too similar to the other or to mine, and I, a lone observer, will never get enough of that feeling.

And speaking the ancient tongue is like reaching out and having a chat with history itself, shadows and shimmers of unspoken words bound by time, now escaping through the curve of your lips.

So much spilt blood on these lands, isn’t it hard to believe such sweet scarlet flowers grown on those same places? Every time you weave those ruby-red flowers into my hair, do those lovers who never got such bliss sigh? Separated by time but brought together again when our hands entwine, do you still believe that everything we have isn’t the exact same shade of scarlet?

won’t you twirl me in the rain love, while the heavens shed the tears we won’t?

"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.

my mind is like a goddamn river. not serene or calm or peaceful, but every thought rushing by too fast and gone before I can fully understand it. I, myself can barely remain afloat in these deep waters. so do you really want to break down my walls, the dams I've built over the years? will you drown in these rushed waters too? and if you manage to swim, would you bring me to my shores with you?

I ignored all the signs under the surface, refused to accept the truth behind the curtains, drunk on our love as how dictators drown in their power, and I faced the consequences while you grinned from the crowds. your love was the looming guillotine hanging above my head, but what they didn't see behind their pity was that i gladly fell into your arms in the end.

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.

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?

it was supposed to be a friendly game of chess, but I suppose that made me forget we were still on the opposite sides of the board. you played a queen's gambit, and did win in the end, but failed to realize that entailed losing your queen too, until it was too late.

and even though the stains from the bright and artificial ice-creams we had are long gone from my clothes and my tongue, I still try to remember what it tasted like, how it was like between us back then when there was still so much to discover. yesterday, I bought the same popsicles we had, as if I could truly ever go back, and I swear something I have known, has never tasted so alien.

blood dripping from your lips like sweet poison, hands shaking (who's hands are steady after a crime?). I kiss away every drop, each a seed of a pomegranate against my lips. I consume your sin, as if it were mine. my hands steady yours, and I help you hide. after all, what are we, if not partners in crime?

And just like infinity, we can't get to the ending, happy or sad. We can't skip to the - how does this end? We've gotta start at the beginning, working our way through everything, walking up to the next room everytime something shifted. And maybe, maybe if we're lucky our love will be eternal. Throughout the parallel universes, throughout our mortal lifetimes. A flip of a coin, fingers brushed together by an accidental paint stroke, a step to the next room.

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