#writers creed

Conflict doesn’t scare me as much as peace does

It is a glass angel waiting to fall from grace

-n.a.

I suspect depression has been around for a while,
But thank God I’m still not suicidal.
They said they wanted to die before they’re old,
And that still hits home for me,
And I can’t help but agree.

Not only am I now in the hazy future of last year,
But I’ve thought beyond my current everyday,
I’ve been making more and more plans.
People are waiting to see the impact
They always expected to watch me leave on the world,
And I feel the pressure keenly.
Will my ideas be enough,
And do I have time for them all?
I’m still not sure there will be impact
Beyond these next 10 years,
A mission long dead before the age of 40.
The feeling that I will be too, looms.

A husband?
Some kids?
I don’t know,
She keeps trying to convince me,
Says it’s just my past that’s haunting me,
While I keep hurting boys who
Think they like me.
More people are getting attached,
So I’m not just floating
Through their lives
As an afterthought in the background.
I make them smile and laugh,
I listen to them and help them
Problem solve and organize,
And they thank me
And mean it.

I didn’t ask for this but I’ll allow it;
I have significance by my very existence
And the space I occupy while there’s
Still oxygen in my chest.
I’m here for a reason.
They say one day someone will wreck my plans again,
Pick them up
And smash them against the wall,
And I’ll listen to the pieces
Shatter to the ground,
And realize I’d been waiting for this moment.
For now,
I suppress any feelings
That would contribute
To such a foolish idea,
To something so crazy,
And insane,
And terrifying as the possibility
That my mother is right about me,
And what little I thought I’d figured out,
Is wrong.

~A.G. 11/10/19

(Reflective sequel to ‘Wrecked Plans’ 3 years later, and ‘The Rebuilding’ 2 years later.)

thegreenkindofgoddess:

Through the steam on the mirror

We are just shapes

The soft peach of me

The dark sun-tone of you,

I can’t see your freckles in the reflection

As if you are not you, and maybe I am not me

We could be one creature, one being,

Right now we are.

My hand slipping on the edge of the sink,

Yours slipping between my legs.

The faucet is cold on my cheek,

Like the gasp lingering on the corner of my lip

You can have it, if you want it,

Take it from me in a kiss.

The steam is rising, building

A culmination of the moment, approaching

A figure in the steam.

A presence, heavy and invited.

I think I hear it rising in the water

Still pouring, did we forget to turn it off?

Our breaths are tangling together

In ghostly mimicry.

I forget about the water, I was wrong.

The rising scream

Is in my throat, maybe it’s in yours too

Ripping the air apart

Too clear and too bright

In this dream caged in with slick walls

And the tiny window above the toilet.

You wipe my lip with my own desire.

I wipe the dream from the mirror,

When we’re done.

I have heard of faith.

It is that thing that those who name themselves

“righteous” seek. They claim

to hold faith, to know it’s grasp, like it is

a mother’s stern hands or

a father’s frozen facial features

reflected in the eyes

of a would-be gospel song

drowned before the end

of its first verse.

It is neither. Faith is

an echo in an empty room, it is

a dream you cannot touch the second you wake from its clutches:

it is called possibility.

I have seen faith.

And it is not made for the righteous.

It does not belong to the holy.

It is built, and nourished, and kept living

on the backs and on the sweat of we,

sweet sinners.

Faith has no reflection.

I cannot tell you what it will look like to you

when, or if, you ever see it.

Faith lives in periphery and in shadow - it is

felt, but unseen. The righteous claim

to know its face, give it blonde hair and blue eyes

call it “angel”, call it “for the holy”,

but cannot name a single place

that its footsteps tread. Cannot recall

a single heart

that they have blessed their so-called faith with.

True faith is bred from heartache,

not privilege.

True faith is sought, and earned,

not given freely upon asking.

True faith is born out of sin,

not into holiness - holiness!

Wholly empty faith.

Give me sin and I will embrace the faith that comes

or does not come.

Give me sin and I will find a story,

a lesson, a purpose, a meaning,

in almost everything my eyes touch.

Faith lives in downtrod doorways,

not in cathedral ceilings.

Some Call It Sin, I Call It Sainthood

She was a bright girl. She knew what she wanted, and she knew exactly what she didn’t. She was easy to know, but difficult to work out. Mature for her age, with bright - misleading eyes, filled with innocence; contrasting from the crimson red that constantly coated her lips. Sending mixed signals without even opening her mouth. A burning soul and a freezing heart - contradicting herself from inside out. She’s a paradox. She’s careless, but she cares all too much. A love that once filled her heart, leaves her aching and longing. A passion that consumed her, leaves her cold and distant. A smile that was once permanently etched on her face is now vacant, left hard and bitter, non existent.

I set myself on fire just to keep you warm.

She was a bright girl. She knew what she wanted, and she knew exactly what she didn’t. She was easy to know, but difficult to work out. Mature for her age, with bright - misleading eyes, filled with innocence; contrasting from the crimson red that constantly coated her lips. Sending mixed signals without even opening her mouth. A burning soul and a freezing heart - contradicting herself from inside out. She’s a paradox. She’s careless, but she cares all too much. A love that once filled her heart, leaves her aching and longing. A passion that consumed her, leaves her cold and distant. A smile that was once permanently etched on her face is now vacant, left hard and bitter, non existent.

I set myself on fire just to keep you warm.

Maybe one day, I will find someone else to love, But I know it will never be a love like ours. It might fill me up with happiness - but it will never replace the love that we had. He might know me, But he won’t know me the way you did, the way you do. He won’t know to give me the grape flavoured candies out of the bag of Jolly ranchers - you know they were always my favourite. He won’t know the way I drink my coffee; strong with that French vanilla creamer you know I loved. He won’t know to squeeze my thigh when that one Ed Sheeran song plays, I always cry when that one song plays, but I didn’t when you were with me. He won’t know to make me a grilled cheese at barbecues - you know how much I hate grilled meat. He won’t know what I’m thinking without even asking me - only you could do that. He won’t be able to read me like an open book - that was your job. He won’t know to push me up against walls and steal a kiss from me - that’s always reserved for you. He won’t know what playlist to play when we drive - that will always remain ours. He won’t know me, I don’t think anyone will ever know me the way you did, the way you still do.

- You were a moment in life that comes and goes.

i did everythingi could
but just like gravity, honey
it was inevitable: the fall.
just like apples falling
from the helpless tree,
like planets revolving
around the sun;
there was no resistance
no tension, no force
that could keep me
from drawing myself to you.
baby, i am attracted to you.

when the day had come,
i had all the strength
of the days you pushed me away.

and when the clock struck ten,
i had all the strength
of the nights i cried
of the times you lied
of the kisses more dead than alive
of the scars on both our skins
of the bruises that we covered
of the voices turned to screams
and the melody we sung together,
broken as it seems.

so when the day had come,
i had all the strength
of the days you pushed me away.

and when the clock struck ten,
i had all the strength
to let you know i’m walking away.

I want to list every bad thing about you. Every mistake, every imperfection, every regret. I want to caress your scars and rip them open. I want to hold your heart and pick out the parts that are wicked and evil and broken.

Because that would make it easier.

It would be easier to just say you hurt me, that’s why I’m walking away. Easier to think I had no choice, that’s why I’m refusing to stay. Easier to make it seem like we did this to ourselves, you and I. Easier than the truth. Easier than reality. Easier than breaking your heart when I tell you things didn’t fell apart.

I did.

I fell out.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

my skin used to melt at your touch.
you used to touch me all over
with the eyes of a lover
now you’re touching me with eyes wide open.
you touch me with detachment
you touch me with restraint
i used to shiver at the static running through our veins
now i shiver at the coldness of your fingertips
you touch me with death
you touch me with decay
now i’m left with all bones and no flesh.
my skin disintegrates at your touch.

why do lovers blame love when things get hard?

when they’re the ones who believe in fate
but not in making things work.

and they’re the ones who let destiny take over
when they fail to decide for themselves

love did no wrong.
love made no mistakes.
for love is pure.

it’s the heart that isn’t.

if i lit a spark
down my throat
and let it
burn its way
through my veins,

if i set fire
to my hopes
and watch
the memory of us
burn up
in flames,

i would
catch fire
trying
to reach
for the ashes.

we ache so much

for someone

to fill our

empty spaces

losing sight

of what love is

and what love

is not.

i feed the hollow
inside my stomach
and in return
it leaves me alone
and empty
and aching;
shivering
at the edge of my bed
with my head on my knees
and a sting on my chest.

every day i rise
to the thought
of seeing him;
of another day
to wrap my arms
around his body
and keep him warm.

and every night i set
to the thought
of losing him;
to the harsh winds
and the cold breeze
and to the grey woman
his eyes are set upon.

but tomorrow i will rise again.

#3 | an astronomical trilogy

Isn’t it splendid?

To live these different lives

but love the same moon.

-k.d.d.

So, I searched for you

in the attic of my mind

only to find dust.

-k.d.d.

Raindrops fall lazily onto the windshield from a foreboding grey sky.

On the radio, a masculine voice croons about wasted potential.

The heat is on and the car becomes a safe haven from the harsh, wet coldness of the outside.

The road is wet, with fallen leaves plastered to the pavement.

In that moment you feel safe but solemn.

And you wonder if this is how you will always feel without them.

Surviving instead of living.

Seperated from them as you are from the cold rain.

Grimly awaiting the moment you have to step outside the car.

-k.d.d.

The heat from your hands

stirs the embers within me–

consuming us both.

-k.d.d.

How cruel the sun is–

shining as your light grows dim.

A distant beacon.

-k.d.d.