Curate, connect, and discover
part 2: macy edwards-johansson
i knocked on the door with a force that could break my knuckles as if my heart isn't enough with all its pieces crumbled to the tiles of the doorway
please don't let this one break me again
macy wasn't always home she looks for it in certain places and from a number of persons i wouldn't want to know
"home shouldn't be about the t.v. going nuts as you rest on your couch after a long day “so you sleep instead and it should be okay “home shouldn't be being aware of the bloody smoke coming from your cigarette that will blind you from living “but you choose to give in anyway because damn it, you're already dead from all these shit happening in your life “home should be sitting on the bottom of stairs with no one to calm you down “but the walls lull to you that it's okay to cry so you cry “home, to me, is when you want to be fucked up “so your home fucks you up, but in the end, it stays beside you, unbroken and full to cope up with your brokenness and emptiness"
she wants to be loved so fucking bad i don’t know if she’ll ever get to find someone who’ll make her feel home
macy didn't respond on the first to three banging on the door
i hoped she's somewhere inside sleeping peacefully and not anywhere hugging her fingers on bottle necks, getting damn wasted
i shouted her name and then her house shrieked her door slowly danced open, revealing macy with droopy eyes
before i can even drop a phrase, she whispered gently — and i saw the universe glowing in her eyes —
“i finally found my home”
and that was all i needed for today
(eusie.)
part 1: mr jameson coles
frozen cookies are his favorite snacks; he said he likes his heart cold. he even likes to fill the path to his house with burned out roses. “because no one likes a love dwindled to nothing,” he replied when i asked why. sad love, sad love, sad love, i heard his eyes whisper. my heart ached. he always met sunrises with cold coffee which he made every night before. and he didn’t care if his shower won’t work anymore. “where do you take baths then?” he answered that his soul keeps wandering around anywhere but here. he likes the smell of nails. and he said he knows what everyone thought of him. the paintings in his living room always sing to him in a melody that resembled a voice in his past. he didn’t tell me a name. but he said his past liked every time it snows. “do you like it when it snows?” he then asked me. then there was a story behind his eyes that echoed out memories. sad love, sad love, sad love, i heard myself whisper. he secludes himself; he said it’s because he’s waiting. for a future he planned long ago with someone who’s not here anymore. the room surrounded us with an atmosphere that felt like i was traveling backwards. a howling wind screamed pain throughout as he looked outside the windows. then slowly, but tearfully, he murmured, “a sad love, isn’t it?”
(eusie.)