*looking At A Post I Made Like Minutes Ago*

pret-endings

I fear I cannot give us a happy ending,

So I'll write us one. A "pret-ending"

A future where you get poems written for you

Because words are my "old, new, borrowed, and blue."

An ending in which our days begin together.

Mondays where I whine about the weather,

Tuesday mornings with a cup of tea,

I complain about a colleague, and you say, "How dare she!"

We'll make a pact to meet halfway

To have lunch together on Wednesdays.

Thursdays are for you to decide

Because I can't find anything to rhyme. I tried.

Fridays, we watch a movie or a show.

Flip a coin, heads I win- tails you lose. Let it go.

Weekends that I spend hearing you sing

Or sit and stare at you while you do your own thing.

We play a lot of rock-paper-scissors,

And the loser gets to chase away the lizards.

We fight over reading a book or watching the sundown

I look at you, watching the last rays shine, and put my book down.

Save me when I try to burn our kitchen

I'll do the dishes if you cook the chicken.

I'll watch you fall asleep

And talk you through your bad dreams.

Wake me up after your walk

You know how much I hate alarm clocks.

If wishes and boons were true

I'd trade the Midas touch for you.

As long as we cannot have of our happy ending,

I'll keep on writing us a pret-ending.

Harry: are you taken?

Draco: Yeah, for granted

desperation

A word we borrowed from Latin.

de (without) + sperare (to hope)

forming a word that I'm getting more familiar

with each passing day.

Desperation: to lose hope.

Losing you would be to lose hope,

Because that is what you brought into my life.

That is what you are.

A hope.

A hope that, in your eyes, I'm worthy of love.

A hope that loving someone could feel so easy.

A hope that loving you is a feeling of warm yellow light.

My days pass without being next to you

And each day, that warm yellow light dims a little.

The flowers that slowly bloom in my lungs

when your hands touch me

slowly start to wither without their light.

I feel my heart gradually freeze

into a block of ice

that doesn't melt without your warmth.

Desperation

starts to creep into me with every breath I take.

So my dearest,

I urge you to come,

to hold me until the winter in my heart thaws,

touch me and bring back the spring.

My Body: A Crime Scene

I was told the body is a temple. I was taught to treat my body like a temple. Sacred, Holy, somewhere God resides, somewhere a person can be at peace. But with time, the sacrality has begun to fade. It has become a realm of my internal demons, something sinister.

My body is now more of a crime scene than a temple.

I've put up barricade tapes around me. Of bright "when life gives you lemon" yellow and black. A cautionary measure for the lighthearted.

Some understand and stay away.

Others push right through like the case now belongs to them.

They say they've seen this before.

They say no amount of gore can keep them away.

They say they'll take care of it.

Only to realize it's bloodier than they could've imagined.

Multiple fingerprints, Multiple footprints: An evidence marker placed for every person I let walk all over me, and for every person, I gave my heart only for them to poke my wounds.

Blood: Numerous splatters, but all mine.

Weapons: Some sticks and stones, knives that I willingly handed over hoping they'd protect me, now covered in my blood and, a pen.

Many witnesses: Either dumb or hostile.

Signs of arson: Ashes of everything I burnt down. Pictures, letters, broken promises, false hopes, unfulfilled dreams.

And now, all that's left of me is a chalk outline. Everything else faded, picked apart or withered away.

My body is not a temple anymore. It isn't sacred or pure.

It's not a place I can stand barefoot.

It's now a place where I need a hazmat suit and gloves.

Surpassing mess

Something's haunting me from within

With teeth, claws, and an evil grin.

Unlike what the movies show

Mine doesn't mess with lights and photos.

I don't live in a haunted house,

Nor do I own the dybbuk box.

So why am I troubled when I try to sleep?

Why is my sanity so hard to keep?

Do you know what's even peculiar?

It's how much all this feels familiar!

They've been living within me all this while

Things I shoved down and never reconciled.

My brain can be a surpassing mess

Make the entire horror genre seem witless.

Because I don't live in a haunted house

Nor do I own the dybbuk box

But do you hear a girl constantly weep?

Until I finally fall asleep.

sorry i cant hang out tomorrow im celebrating the death of a 2123 year old roman politician with a bunch of psychos on tumblr. yeah its gonna be all day

Never felt more seen.

"Dark academic?" More like "someone please help me holy shit I can't continue living like this and the only thing keeping me from falling off my rocker is literature."

Happy Ides of March !!!!

he is half my soul.

the song of achilles by madeleine miller // work song by hozier // unsourced image // achilles come down by gang of youths // unsourced image

Digital Age.

Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a cage

Or should I call it #theDigitalAge ?

And I must tell you, it's loud in here.

I see and hear everyone too much.

Being called out by memes, and

Feeling left out on trends.

Photoshop making grass a little greener

While I filter out my blues.

I send you LOL with a straight face,

Use "Panic" as my wordle guess,

You see my carefully curated stories,

Unaware of the ones I hide from you.

Trained to fake a smile

Faster than the shutter speed.

While living like the protagonist

Of Franz Kafka's dairy adaptation.

Tired of looking through this glass cage.

Aren't you sick of this Digital Age?

Oh, Who am I kidding! You've already moved on,

To double-tap the next thing.