for the alive

True story. The other morning as I washed the sleep off of my face, I noticed my neck in the mirror. The delicate flesh just above my collar bone was bruised with grip marks like I'd been strangled in the night. Hard. My flesh had bruised like fallen rose petals and I had no idea why.

I pictured the walls of my bedroom closing down and growing hands in the night, pressing into my body and daring me to scream or sigh out into the velvet night. I've never been afraid of a little choking, a little extra pressure so I can really feel my carotid artery beating in my neck. Make life feel more vital and impending.

I have yet to solve the mystery of my grips along my neck. Maybe it was my own hand resting gently on my chest and then suddenly pushing on my vocal chords with all of their strength. Playing with the control of breath. Making sure I don't get complacent. Teasing me so I remember to stay alive.

via *

lay me down tonight in my linen and curls

Last night I plucked the moon from the sky and shoved it straight down my throat. All this time they've told us it was made of curdled milk. It was made of sugar cookie dough and crinkled happily down my throat as it made its way down. The sugar dust stayed on my fingers and I sucked it all out from under my nail beds while I thought of you, no longer able to see the moon gazing down at you.

You didn't deserve her. The moon is made of pure dust and smells like fresh tulips in the first garden sprout of spring. She couldn't stand to look at you as you made your way down the street each night, sneaking in and out, promising love to one and yanking it away from another.

I drove comfortably down the street toward home, missing all of the usual potholes because these were my roads. I followed gently along the curves like how I trace the space between the moles on my arm. I trace them myself, while your fingers rot off and twist lifelessly down in the cement of your heart. I trace them and feel the moon bubbling in my throat and glowing in my chest.

via *

if I lay here

"I hope you're old boyfriends tickled your back for you," he says and I can hear the pout playing on his lips. I shut my eyes and feel his chest rise and fall slowly, my ear pressed against his chest bone. I feel those first few pinprick tears starting to play around inside of my tear ducts and blink hard to push them away. Keep myself here in this moment, with his hands painting swirls across my back.

"I honestly can't remember the last time anyone tickled my back," I whisper towards the darkness in front of me. The dark is pixelated by the city lights peeking behind the blinds. The dark is made softer by the crooning records spinning endlessly and closing us into an insular world.

He pushes his lips softly into my midnight hair and inhales deeply. I inhale too, taking in every molecule of this moment. "That's a shame," he speaks, "your skin is so soft."

via *

hot summer nights

My heart is made of summer nights,
that crushed velvet violet tye-dyed
with wisps of hot pink ribbons
cutting across the surface.
It sneaks up on you and then
presses down on you entirely,
imprinting itself much deeper
than you'd realized.

But once you notice it,
that violet fades to tender blue.
That's where you live in my heart.
You live where ocean breezes and
oil paints cascade in summer
nights framed in silver and gold.
You live where that blue never
burns out and winter never
eats those nights alive.

My heart is made of summer nights,
and those nights were made for you.

via *

telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare, honey

The hazy blue of summer nights makes me feel selfish. With tangerine clouds inching past my window as I lay in bed, I don't know how I became so lucky as to see the world unfold around me. How I became so lucky to have been through so much and lived. To feel that tiny breeze play across my collarbone or that little thought of you peek through my eyelashes.

I bet you feel like summer and taste like ocean breezes.

Lana Del Rey is writing about us, you know.

via *

but I'm hoping at the gates, they'll tell me that you're mine

It's at that horrible point where I sit awake at five in the morning in complete darkness, save for the laptop screen, and see your face painted inside every song I listen to. I squeeze my eyes as tight as possible until spiders made of fractured light are crawling in the darker space behind my eyelids. This is the horrible point where I flirt with regretting all that I said and wanting desperately to say more. I'm trying to recapture that moment that was so the same three years ago while lying to myself about nothing having changed at all. I'd gladly say it all again. I hope you'd listen again and maybe let me hug you longer this time. But then again, I think I was the one who pulled away first. I should have breathed you in for as long as I could. Because now I'm breathless, but in the worst way possible. Everything is muddled at five in the morning.

via *

you'd make a nighttime of the day so it'd suit the mood of your song

Maybe it's because I'm used to being broken and seeing broken things that I never complain when the ice machine is on the fritz or the air conditioner isn't quite cold enough. Maybe it's because I love the numbness that I find it easy to shut my eyes for three second intervals while I drive, a little dare for myself. I've been internally screaming for months and before I reached the boiling point, I let my car drift across lanes, regaining control just before disaster struck. The roads are silent and lonely at two in the morning, perfect for escapism. I want it to stay this fuzzy time forever, always have the perfect wind of a summer night to spill my secrets into.

via *

Ps. Sorry I've been gone; it's been rough goings.

5.27.14

The birds started chirping at about 5 AM. I know I'll regret staying up all night writing while sitting through seven hours of class today but this sunrise smells like sugar and summertime sings so softly in these pale hours. 

nightlight

It's harder to sleep at night knowing
I'll miss the stars and record players
Spinning in their galaxies,
These orbits outside my window.
Miles above the radiation-
Light years away from memories of
hands and tears nestling into my fingertips.
My shoulders closing in like book covers,
letting my heart be burrowed in my
word soaked ribs.
I curb loneliness with pages.
His spine is gone and yet five spines
have settled in my bed,
peaking at me under pillowcases,
laughing below my calve
and lounging beside me in my sheets.
The stars have the black matter to
nestle inside of but I have
my serpentine spines.
The night wears on and yet sleep
remains a shadow dancing on my wall.
Pages flutter with the breeze sneaking
in through the open window and
rattling the cages the characters share,
begging for stories to be told.
Go to sleep, I whisper, trying to
evaporate into the stars as they
beat against my brain and seconds
hoist their hands on toward daylight.
Another morning coming much too soon.
But I'd rather be tired and inspired,
heart on fire, fingertips wired to the keys,
than retired from the desire to create
and let these people breathe.

via *

2.26.14

I’ve gotten used to sleeping with my curtains peeled back ever so slightly. I can see a little rectangle of sky when I lay in bed. In the morning the sun nudges my shoulder as I scramble to wake up and start my day. It’s become such a comfort to see my little corner of the sky each night. My black curtains sweep across the entire window, making my room a fortress. But with that small little crack for me to peer up and out of, I can watch the night move and change. I love feeling so small as I lay in my oversized bed. I love feeling so connected even in the detached moments of half sleep.

The best part is the tree. The tree that is sturdy and stable in a way I know I cannot be right now. I can’t explain why seeing that tree makes me less afraid of the dark or why it makes me feel that everything will be ok if I breathe a little deeper. I’m not sturdy. I’m as looped and changing as my record player, singing melancholy song after melancholy song and the gothic clouds mold themselves across the sky and peek at me from behind the arms of my ever present tree.

via *

night

I've found myself staying up

later and later

lately. 

I feel you next to me

while the rest of the world

is sound asleep,

your hands on my hip,

the curve of you

curved on me.

The hours tick away softly

as your voice and sighs

grow louder in my ears.

Two AM.

We lay on your floor

listening to music.

I lay on my back,

staring at the wilting

neon stars on the ceiling.

Three AM.

We curl into each other

on your couch.

I curl into myself,

pressed into my wall.

Four AM.

Your lips travel

the length of my spine.

A cold wind finds its way

across my back

through my sheets.

Five AM.

I see you above me,

brushing the hair 

from my eyes.

I close my eyes

to keep your ghost 

alive.

Six AM.

We lay together,

panting and alive.

I lay alone,

sweating nostalgia

from every pore.

As the sun leaks 

through the curtains

and the rest of the world

shatters awake,

my eyes declare defeat.

I fall asleep

with you by my side.

via *