#spilled journal

abusivesubstance:

i went to the beach without you tonight. it was dark out and there wasn’t a single star in the sky, because of course there’s not, theres never a clear night sky when i would want it most. maybe next time i always say, but by the time i get around to making myself look at the edge of the earth it’s always the same when im by myself. i am okay with being by myself. i would still rather have been with you, i still would rather be with you. i wanted to be sharing that moment with you so bad, i craved it more then you’re probably craving some sleep or your own death wherever you’re at as i write this. i hope that next time i go to the beach at one in the fucking morning and sit down on the path and let myself feel for once, it’s because i am feeling your hand squeezing mine or your breath on my neck or your arms wrapped around my body or you. i just want to feel you. and every emotion that comes along with you. your cold or your warmth were all i needed tonight because im just never hallt with moderation.

soooo felt this

‘Inside I am all hollow, winding—

how I imagine a turned-out seashell—

and in the very centre there lives a china woman,

gathering water from my inner well.’

'break,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1280

‘guilt is a flower; it takes root, tangling

down the spine and round the lungs—

it waits, snake-like, for its chance to blossom;

today, it is done.’

'guilt,’- Megan’s Poetry #1279

‘I was born into a thorn-bush;

now, as if I were the one to fall,

I must find the thorns lodged in my breast

and remove them, one and all.’

'the thorn-bush,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1278

‘strip the fruit, but do not tear the branches;

leave me my roots—

I will flower again.’

'in time,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1277

‘replace the puppet strings with ribbons,

tie them in a little bow—

now you can yank as you like

and she will never know!’

'puppetry,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1276

‘I ​see her in my mind’s eye, that sweat-soft starlet. ringlets clinging to her swan neck,

dark hair bleached gold

beneath the soft glow of the morning Sun—

lips stained purple, dress bruised red.’

'life of the party,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1275

‘is love winged bliss, or steady ground?—

maybe not;

but, I know, it is not so

an unstable path as this.’

'falling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1274

‘I am proud to have practiced loving;

I am proud to know you to your bones—

I am proud to know which tendons to pull

and which to leave alone.’

'to be known,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1273

‘love, meat-like, only serves to make us sick in the rawness of it—

tame your feeling; for I will not stand to be bowled by the strength of it.’

'love, meat-like,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1268

‘and I love the portrait

but never the man—

when away,

I keep it in my pocket,

cased in an ornate golden locket,

and look at it,

whenever I can;

when finally the journey is over

and no longer we are parted—

I remember how much I longed to leave,

that his presence leaves me broken-hearted.’

'the locket,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1266

‘and I’d sever my right hand

to have you kiss the left—

I’d burn in flames

if I thought you’d love the ashes.’

'unloved,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1264

‘And he’s painted over your mirrors

so his touch is in your eyes;

you try to purify yourself in water

but his fingers have muddied the supply—

you move out of the house

but his ghost is with you still;

I’ll learn to love my reflection, you repeat,

but you don’t think you will.’

'smeared mirrors,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1263

‘Oh, how loud are his trumpets!—

but how graceless is the tune;

his flags are painted in such bright colours,

but with so messy a stroke—’

'the pride of the fool,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1262

‘put a woman together, the dream-man said.

I took the pin

and rolled her skin thinner.

put the woman together, the dream-man said.

I weighed the brain and heart as one

but left the lungs and liver.

put the woman together, the dream-man said,

and I chose eyes for her;

now put her together, he repeated, voice irritated, now—

but I had no clue how to stitch her.’

'the woman together,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1261

‘she wants

that which she does not show;

she has no desire for that

will merely melt the iceberg—

dive deeper, dive deeper, the depths

scream and cry;

but that is where her monsters are

so explorers should beware the bite.’

'true love,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1260

looking into a heart-shaped mirror,

seeing ringlets and lace and long long lashes, thinking.

thinking,I’m the prettiest doll

that I’m ever going to be.

my doll-house is where I keep my victories.

over-achiever, people-pleaser;

I spend all my time

before some kind of mirror –

it’s easier to believe you’re a pleasure to teach

when you’re a pleasure to see.

I wonder,

just how long

before my china shoulders shatter?

I won’t be fuckable forever.

what if I end up as a grave

that no stranger will never admire?

go at your own pace,

says the old woman

who lives in my head.

she rocks, on a rocking chair;

I rock with her, try and listen

when she says, calm down.

you have so many years ahead of you.

open my jewellery box. a thousand baubles

for a hundred achievements –

and which one of them is enough?

flowers blossom beautifully and die quickly:

maybe I’m done. maybe my season’s up.

choker of pearls. aren’t you a pretty girl?

I’m not so special as they said,

and my luck will not forever last –

I’ll fail, soon. and I’d rather be dead.

we are rocking, still. harder, now:

my nails bite into my calves.

my breathing is shallow, sharp:

a sad stream, shuddering through

a Winter wall of jagged rocks.

fall, my old woman suggests, voice soft

like a skipping stone. cry. I’ll catch you.

I don’t.

‘I wrote this instead,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1259

‘look, look: the hearth is warm;

the beds rest on clouds, your spirit on stars.

do you want the door to open? if so, then speak!

you are but one step away— you lock yourself behind bars.

are you not starving here? do you not weep?

take on the lion’s courage, and be brave:

conquer your fear of the door, my darling,

and you will be warm— you will be saved.’

'1 chronicles 17:25,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1258

‘I love like I eat:

in dainty bites— I’m all downturned desperate eyes,

never wanting the chef to know that I’m still hungry.’

'hunger,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1257

‘light exists not in passivity;

light burns, and brightens, and purifies.

tame not the anger that rises from compassion;

never dull the shine of loving eyes.’

'isaiah 58,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1255

‘I do not deserve all your roughness

simply because I will not break;

my bleeding is not yours to give,

when it is mine to take.’

'gentle handling,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1254

‘He sees the world all filled with mirrors: he sees not others, but how he feels about others; he loves not me, but his love for me.’

'the self-centred man,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1253

“well now I understand, how a mother’s heart

can boil into such a brutal cold;

I have thawed my rage, as I am without command;

weak as I am, I fall before your demands. I am subjected; I am told.

Hades too shall have my babe, should

this predatory Winter’s swollen stomach grow –

I give you my ring in hopes that it birth

no more— that the frozen rivers will start to flow.

Fill our fields with cornucopias of corn,

bright and golden as that which I have bequeathed –

how we shall chant your praises, then!

You shall wear our bounty as a victor’s wreath.

I fear for my love. I do not cry, nor rest, just rage;

believe truly, goddess, that I understand your pain –

for, if it were I that could grip the Sun, I would care

for no burned fingers:

I would starve you all— you too, fellow mother—

and starve you still again.”

‘a mother’s offering, designed to move demeter,’ - Megan’s Poetry #1252

My thoughts are chaos, especially when I am trying to put pen to paper. Writing them down allows me to organize them neatly, but the problem is now that I want to make them perfect. Perfect! Wow, will I ever be over the perfectionism bullshit? Oh wow it’s getting hot, gotta roll up my sleeves. Do I have anything left worth saying? Stop that, your words mean something you dumb fuck. Potato. Well, maybe except that one. I like the flowers on top of my notebook. I hope I don’t ruin the pages. Have I written enough? Should I write more? You’re fine! Oh shoot, it’s still hot. I guess I’ll go to bed. 

I found myself waiting to be told to begin this assignment. When I heard that we should have already been starting this assignment, I immediately felt overwhelmed. I am behind. I am going to fail this entire class. You know, the usual anxious anxiety thoughts of anxiousness. I wonder what it’s like to not immediately spiral into anxiety lol. I wish I had tea, but I’m stuck in this lab since I didn’t have time to go home. This hard, stiff chair isn’t exactly the epitome of comfort. I guess I just have to do my best to make do with what I’ve got. 

— The Kissing Booth 2

and we are all

just fighting

to survive a world

where

i miss you

doesn’t mean

i’m coming back

and

i love you

doesn’t mean

i’ll stay

— Chloë Frayne, Letters And Why They’re All For You

sometimes

you”ll never know the

value of a moment

until it becomes

a memory

maybe it isn’t just about me being with you.

that’s not what i really fear.

what i really fear is that,

you’ll leave me without telling me.

and that you’ll stop loving me,

and not let me know.

that you’ll love another girl,

and not let me know.

— please let me know.