When My Memory Of You Seems To Fade

i love when i “make a mental note” of something. it’s gone within 20 seconds

this website lets you listen to the sounds of all different forests around the world 

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.

Shit Slytherins Say: #254

Ok no offense, but some of us *looks pointedly at self in mirror* need to fucking chill

*looking at a post i made like minutes ago*

"what the fuck was i on how did i write it like that"

How will you remember me ?

Will you remember me

By the times I told you I loved you or by the times that I showed you the same?

Cause if it's former geez I'm sorry, I hope you reminisce the latter.

Will you remember me

When you see my favorite flower or by the scent of my favorite perfume?

If it's the former I left you a plant and the latter in a box among your clothes.

Will you remember me

By the silly fights i picked or by the number of times I apologized?

If it's former or the latter, maybe you should remember me by something else.

Will you remember me

By my imperfections, will you remember all of my flaws?

I hope it's both former and latter, cause those are the parts of me that loved you the most.

Will you remember me

When you play our videos or will you hear my voice as you read this?

If it's former you better save it forever, if it's later I wish it never fades.

Will you remember me

After a year, will you remember us after a decade?

I tried to leave back pieces of me, because I'm scared of you forgetting the latter.

FLOWERS AND SCARS

The flowers you once gave

Are now my bookmarks.

Dried and black,

Yet somehow artful.

Like the scars, you left behind

To bookmark

The person I was, and have become.

Dried and black,

Yet somehow hurtful.

(13.11.20)

if there's anything tumblr has taught me it's that this guy named franz kafka was in agony 365 days a year