April 2014
Via   •   Source



You were more naked when we were sitting in the bar. The louder the jazz band got the more honest you were. Your clothes and armor dissolving in the notes and the words of my story. Excited and invigorated and as a result devastated by the truth that life is unendurable and yet everyday endured. That no matter how exciting, it is still so full of requiring, demanding needs. Needs need boiling down to essences then needing scrounged through for what matters. Needing to make what matters. To make it first and then to make it matter. To let go of every anger that binds you to regret about your own choices. To find the voice of what you want. I might rub off on you, but only a tiny little bit.

You were less naked in the dark, stripped of clothes and vibrating. Literally shaking with energy. Enough to almost take you away but not completely. You were thinking about what it might mean, continually. You were dressed in your own nudity. Wearing it like camouflaged armor. I saw you. I felt it. I was an embrace with what is your surface. The comfortable skin and the lost flesh of meaning within. It was the first reach of a hand out of darkness. But it had nothing to do with me. Much less sex. You are looking for abrasion to sand off the surface.

As you said when we were sitting there, dressed in public. You said yourself you have no opponent. There is too much void. You reach out to attach. In hope of finding a place to attach to, a place to swing from. To launch yourself back out free once you are stronger. It is lovely, and a good plan. I am just not the stable framework necessary to sustain it. I am just a slingshot, my friend. 

#reblog   #jillc   #prose   #trixclibrarian   
April 2014
Via   •   Source

Ghosts VII


I would have kissed your mouth like it was the last one I might ever taste. I would have touched your body like it was the last one I might ever touch. I would have loved you every night like it was our last, even after waking up every morning for 50 years with you still in my arms. 

You would have loved me.

Who knew that dreams don’t come true? Who knew that no matter how many times you imagine holding someone, doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually get to?  I always thought people who belonged together; people who wanted the same things; people who wanted to be loved the same way found each other eventually.

Then I met you.

I would have loved you, too.

April 2014
Via   •   Source

Signs You Love Writing:


• you read the words of a novel aloud to see what the words taste like
• you like to imitate the style of famous authors
• you can make a poem or story out of anything
• sharpening #2 pencils makes you feel sentimental
• you carry a journal or notebook with you everywhere you go
• you turn your English Professor’s advice into writing quotes
• you love the sound of pens scratching against paper
• the sight of speling and garammtcial erorrs does NOT compute
• you blog 24/7 and you feel extreme hatred for anyone who touches your laptop.
• you would rather write than sleep
• You. Would. Rather. Write. Than. Sleep.

April 2014
Via   •   Source

A hole in your head



You walk past lives on your way to important things. Maybe you miss people like the man with the dust-caked cardboard sign with a hilarious number of teeth (he shares the joke, he’s always smiling). He knows more than you will ever know, in deeper and stranger ways. When he was fourteen he saw a dead person in an alleyway. The poor sod was wearing a beige coat and had three teardrops tattooed under his left eye. He had a big hole in his head.

Not very fashionable, he might admit. Maybe two holes in your head were in vogue at the time. One was too passé. Maybe he told himself and all his friends he’d never end up that way; if he died (a deep and distant possibility) it would be in prostration of a personal honour, a personal god. He probably took a hit off a joint and smiled at the smoke,

“Cheers, teardrops”.

Times change; he has justified living- you will too, eventually. What life at all, he might not be able to tell you, but he did not end up like the man with a hole in his head. He finished some part of school and he met the President once. He hasn’t seen a dead body since he was fourteen, but he’s seen enough people with secure lives and decent homes without a care or purpose in the world to know that he’s seen hundreds of bodies as good as dead since.  

He wasn’t born homeless but he was born untethered and wildly loose. He knows exactly what it takes to be the man he should be, he knows exactly what he’s done to become the man he is, and he doesn’t care much either way. He doesn’t live day to day, he lives conversation to conversation; inhale to exhale; shoe to foot.

live day to day.

You don’t speak to him because bad luck is contagious, and you won’t seriously risk your prospects by talking to a bum who would kill you for three dollars and a pack of Dunhills. God, there are more important and meaningful reasons to be killed. That’s why you’ve forgetten about the friends you had who haven’t made it. That’s why you hug your father and ignore his advice about being ‘spiritually balanced’ and not ‘focussing entirely on your work’. Intelligent people can be unlucky too and you’ll be damned if you do anything to bring that string of cold cards upon yourself. Better to walk past the bum, head straight to the office.

Hell, avoid the cracks on the sidewalk, too.  

Of course you’d never admit to putting stock in such superstition yourself, you cheeky goose. Symbols like Luck and God are silly, and you leave symbols for the symbol-minded, but it’s all there; your mother probably taught you everything you know that’s actually worth knowing.

Back to the cardboard man.

For some reason, you know that he’d speak to you if you spoke to him; grant you one hundred percent of his attention and consciousness with a smile and a laugh, a rough hand and a tipped hat (or something to that effect- you imagine all homeless people to be characters from Pulp Fiction, but you don’t actually know what any of them look or sound like for sure, you haven’t spoken to one. Hell, you haven’t even actually seen Pulp Fiction). You know he wants money from you, but that shouldn’t cost his dignity, surely.

He knows as well as you do that if you were a child, chuffed to bits with youth, you would be looking up to him with his greasy gloves and long hair. You’d ask him what he did today, or if he ever killed a man. You’d try to speak like him while you were with him (“Yeah it’s the government kid, they don’t care about me”), but still, you somehow know he’d talk to you with veneered respect.

Maybe he thinks good luck is contagious, too. No harm in being nice, who the hell knows what Tuesday will bring?

He saw a dead guy once. He had a hole in his head and three teardrops on his neck. Maybe it was his forehead… it doesn’t matter, “trust me man, he had teardrops on him at all times ha ha ha”. He killed a man once, when he was fourteen, to score some grass and laugh about it with his friends.

“Will talk about all kinds of stuff for food!”

Cardboard catharsis.

What did you learn in university? How to beat the game? How to get away with murder? How to live a happy life, get the 401K, the optimum conditions to start a family in a globalized bla bla bla he killed a man once. He was fourteen. He had a hole in his head.

You do too. Everyone does.

#reblog   #writing   #spilled ink   #prose   #insenan   
April 2014
Via   •   Source

It’s that dream again.


You know, the one where he’s standing there knee deep in the water nd you try to see his face but it’s all just flowers and weeds and overgrowth. You go to part the branches and pluck the leaves but behind it there’s only more. More daisy’s & rosebuds & stems & thorns. You try to halve the wilderness like he parts the river, throwing a smooth, rippling gash of dry land center stream.

You try to drown the way he drowns, faceless while the tide rises and tears petals clean off, the world a hurricane flickering & you being tugged along. Ragdoll in the river.

When it all settles there are vines on your arms, silt up to your shins- you move so slow. He is walking away, up the bank on the other side of the river, a trail of sticks and stems all the way up the muddy embankment.

April 2014
  •  *after doing something weird to each other, like always*
  • Husband: You're right, we're not that much different from when we're hanging out with other people.
  • Me: Well, except for a lot more nudity.
April 2014
Via   •   Source

Think of All the Things That Make You Cry


It’s been such a long time
since I shared this bed of mine
with bright eyes and cute smiles,
and I’m forgetting what other people’s
skin feels like.

I’m sitting in the corner, watching
pretty people laughing and kissing,
sharing drinks, and not thinking about
their ex-lovers from years ago
in the corner of the room.

An old soul in a young place. Make
me smile, and I will follow wherever you
lead. I remember the last time we hugged;
it was a goodbye, and I will always remember
it was a goodbye.

Focus is fleeting when
everyone’s leaving so soon and
I just got here. I left my bed with a
stomachache and half-hearted heartbreak.
I’ll just sing myself to sleep tonight.

April 2014
Via   •   Source

Know Better


Wonder if I’m better now that I have survived you. Survived the monster you tried to make me into that reflects the shadowed side of your face and I know that side because it was all I could ever see. In the damn room with the one window that wasn’t close enough to put that burning light on your entire features. It wasn’t enough to keep me warm at night either and that stupid moon that refused to give me the comfort it had as a child. Whispering, now, only nightmares in my ears that sounded as though she were telling me of the future.

But Luna had been wrong. I survived you and your stupid shadowed face, rough hands and cold nights. I made my way out of your orbit and fuck it feels good. I’m better now. Much better and you’re where you should have been all along.

April 2014
Via   •   Source



Sea gives me wet feet
lapping at my footprints
filling them with her essence.
Still…I want a piece of her
to carry with me. A broken
clam shell, faulty star. Perhaps
her salt will impregnate me with
passion, and I can learn how
It is always about energy.

April 2014

The signs, the ones so blatant, that hold you enraptured and gather all your attention, those are the ones you have to look out for. The painted elephant may catch your eye, but it’s going to leave behind a lot of shit for you to clean up.

April 2014
Via   •   Source

Do Not Stumble upon My Heart, If You Don’t Heed Warnings.


Diphthongs hang on the opening of your cracked lips, somehow they even managed to produce interrupted drools between your gaped teeth. Albeit you are not supposedly reading them out loud. You are merely mouthing every word I wrote, entrapping them to your dangerous tongue. Or were you?

Chances are you do not care about mediocre writing. You might actually just practicing your plea for everyone whom you have hurt feelings with, or recalling directions penned around your shampoo’s bottle in times you seek for unusual solace. Perhaps it really is. You do not care about my way of coming off guard to your armed heart, enabling it to trigger mutual feelings. You do not care for my stained quill, bleeding over and over again for the exact reason it bled recently.

You really do not care about my reckless attempt on imitating Shakespeare’s impact on his hopeless romantic lackeys. Hypocrisy doesn’t survive long, love. 

I have come to my senses that you despise soliloquies whispered along with the presence of air and desperation, because you have done it for someone who you vye for the love you can’t receive. Whereas you have me but I can’t receive it either.

Someday, my words won’t longer be dedicated to you and I’d catch a fallen lash and wish that when that day comes, you’ll mouth regret tandem-ed with a sigh.

Just five words long.

#reblog   #enslaveins   
April 2014
Via   •   Source


It breaks my heart to see her fingers shudder coldly at the bowl of rice waiting eagerly to sate her shaken appetite. She draws her hands away from the table and whispers a known whisper, “i’m not so hungry today”.
Her voice is a famished melody resulting from a sudden loss in harmony between her flesh and bones. Flesh and bones, such a sweet medley of reliance and fondness, a very honest example of a treaty of mutual cooperation and security signed between delicacy and solidarity. She wears her skin two feet under her bones. Her skin is a fractured ship carrying her smile. Her smile, is sinking deep to settle under her bones. Her bones are tying loops of ropes around themselves to resist gravity.

She rocks her chair across the dinner table, a quick workout to eliminate the few flecks of carrots that managed to slide into an empty pit. She runs to her room, weighs herself 4 times, looks at the mirror as her palms fill with hollow tears. Suddenly, the mirror is blown to leave mottles of failure. 
A mirror is nothing but a canvas and you are the artist spilling visionary figures to create images you keep stored in your head since 6 am in the morning. You can’t always paint the colorful Sometimes it’s okay to let the mirror feel how your tearing organs feel. It’s absolutely okay. 

She is a hesitant guest at the dinner table every night. It’s the same struggle to convince the ones who care that she’s okay. Everyone’s looking at her collar bones grow sharper every day, her skin melt, her thighs disappear, nobody notices her hair growing. 
The air orbiting her is a mix of lies and self-doubt,
"im fine" and "im incredibly sorry".

Her best friend shakes her, “why wouldn’t you eat, EAT”.

Don’t shake her like there are no contents inside her. She has a heart, shrivelled up to match the size of a dry raisin. Offer her your hand before you peel an orange for her, help her stand. She will stand. She will let you help her. She needs to hear a voice louder than those ringing in her head.
Please don’t shake her so hard.
She will stand, on the legs she’s leaving trails of scratches on.
She’s measuring her thighs again that lie far apart from each other like a divorced pair. Palms unfolding like wings, palms folding, recording, unfolding, folding, recording, unfolding. 15”. There are measuring ropes twined around her body like cocaine snares. The moonshine collects in the craters of her collarbones while she undresses and allotts herself to the bed for measuring her stomach which is the deepest concave outline.

Don’t solely rely on her bones for renting shelter under flesh. 
There are apples on the sill, but she doesn’t have any. 
She doesn’t.

April 2014
Via   •   Source


She’s a roulette,
Kiss her softly;
Love her roughly.

April 2014

Anonymous asked

Hi. Why haven't you been writing much lately?

Because life happens. When words don’t come to your mind anymore, when there are a plethora of better writers here on Tumblr, and no one gives a crap about what you share, what’s the point?
Why do you honestly care, grey-face? Either you don’t have a Tumblr account (which is unlikely if you’re asking this) or you do and want to hide behind anon for some reason. And I don’t like that. Own up to your question or don’t bother.
So, I’ll stick to being an editor, featuring and reblogging, because that’s all I’m good for around here.

#Anonymous   #ask   
April 2014
Via   •   Source

I’ll write it in prose and read it like poetry


I am not a poet.
I was never a poet.
I write in blocks of paragraphs prosaic.
There’s a static predisposition in my emission of words. They don’t come dancing or swaying or moving in waves. They behave like frozen atoms shivering from what little heat they could resonate.
My words are zigzags, jagged at the edges. Incomplete and imperfect. Like broken glass. Like fragile things.
They don’t draw curlicues in summertime cloud formation nor paint colors into rainbow connections.
They rarely float, they just stumble over themselves, clumsy, a bag full of bricks brimming heavy with emotions. I created them without the notion of bursting fireworks from chests seamlessly poring over paper, forming words that tap-dance and fly.
No, my words are concocted from bleeding veins, painstaking hours of confession - construction, destruction and reconstruction of words. I am their surgeon stitching my literary Frankenstein in ink lines and paper scraps. There is no effortless lullaby in this. There is only brimstone and sulfur, trying to create something even the tiniest bit beautiful.
My words aren’t beautiful. At best, they are honest. And because they are honest, they are flawed. Like a manuscript forgotten, filled with strike-throughs and scratches. I wrote them all in pen because these are words I would never leave forgotten. So every mistake they ever made and every beauty they could muster to create will leave permanent ink stains in my heart.
I was never a poet.
I was told I wasn’t one. When I was in third grade, she told me that poetry was supposed to be pretty. Poetry was supposed to flutter like butterfly wings and glitter like stars. Poetry was supposed to hum and rhyme and sing. But mine, my sad plain sentences were too flat, too sad, too stark with the truth spilling out of its broken edges. Spilling like the cracks in my heart. And the truth was ugly. It has always been ugly. The truth makes you angry and sad and frustrated.
So it wasn’t poetry.
Because it wasn’t pretty.
I grew up believing that there was no space in the pages for me. My words were too broken, my sentiments too severe.
So I let my words shatter. Let them falter and crumble and divide into the thousand little pieces that they were meant to be. There wasn’t such a thing as too broken for me. I’d let them break as often as they like, let them be as broken as they can be. And if in some way, they become irretrievable, their pieces turning irreparable, I’ll embrace them all the more. Their ugliness is my fire; their tragedy is my love. My words are not pretty. My words are not fine.
My words are coffee stains and patches on sweaters worn too may times. My words are rainclouds and lightning and waiting in line for the bus under the rain, jet-lagged moments between aeroplanes, the bitter aftertaste of nicotine. Like the aftertaste of life.
My words made too many mistakes, placed too many hearts on their sleeve, and failed so many times that I’ve lost count of the days they would wake me up in the middle of the night to open a vein and cry into pages.
My words are not pretty.
They weren’t ever meant to be.
But you know what, fuck pretty. Fuck sashaying letters and smiling words. Fuck rainbows and fireworks and flawless verses. Fuck symmetrical greatness, colorful compacted complexities painting masterpiece after masterpiece. My words are not masterpieces. My words are not perfect. And I’d take imperfect anytime.
And if that doesn’t make me a poet, so be it.
My words will not be pretty.
They are gangly and awkward and clumsy. Like half-created sonnets that really weren’t meant to be. Like a broken branch from a family tree. Like hidden scribblings that no one else can see.
My words are not pretty.
But I still won’t stop believing in the unrelenting honesty of this pseudo-poetry. This alphabetic vomit. This regurgitation of words imitating reality. The impossible fit of phrases. The discarded parts sown together, splintering sharply at its seams. The over-emotional, the hyper-sentimental, the a-lot-less-than-grandiose blocks of paragraphs too plain, too flat, too stark, too jarring. My words. My words. My flawed and incomplete and imperfect words. I will love them all.
So even if my words can never be pretty, I’ll still write them all down in prose and read them like poetry.

Powered by Tumblr   •   Theme Layout by Nutty-Themes