Our relationship never seems to work out
It goes so well, that it's almost perfect
Then falls apart like dry sand
I'm always thinking of you
Even if I don't want to
It's like you're always in my mind
But feels as if I'm not in yours
And something wants us together
But something else wants us apart
I don't know what to be more afraid of
Having you always there
My heart in your hands
Or not having you at all
Crying myself to sleep cause I don't have you by my side
All I know is I might fall so hard
That it could be something strange
And really scary
Called love
But the thing is I don't believe in love anymore
Maybe you could change that?

No one ever really finds me.

If I went throught all the things I’ve ever written about in my poems
I would have time for nothing else. Not stargazing or hymn books,
not boiling soup or breaking apart crabs into tender meat. My mother
has a c-section scar as wide as the moon and two times
as painful. They say birth is supposed to be beautiful, that’s why
the scar is shaped like a smile. Most of what could possibly
happen in the universe to anyone ever
has happened to me. Rest assured that’s not a good thing,
that there is too much salt in this life of mine. Not enough honey
or parsley, not enough neighborhoods full of airports.
As far as I’m aware, nothing of the sort has occurred throughout the entire course of history. Speaking of history
ours is not such a pretty one. I wish you hadn’t done that
and by that we all know what I mean.
Today I climb into my poems like a window. There is one truth
that rises above all others in whatever I write:
I have always been an eclipse. No one ever really finds me.

// I hope you know //

I know I shake when you don’t call and I feel like I can’t breathe when you forget to tell me you love me. I know that sometimes the words that come spilling out of my mouth at 3 AM make me sound crazy. I know that I love you a little too much. I know everything really hurts right now. I hope you know that I will always be here to keep the blood inside your veins. I hope you know that I will always be here to kiss you goodnight even if I fall asleep crying afterwards. I hope you know that you are the only reason I’ve still got stars hidden under my skin. I hope you know that you are the only thing that keeps the flowers in my lungs from dying. I know we’re fucked up. I know that sometimes I make you feel like you’re choking. I hope you know that I’m sorry. I hope you know that I see you in everything. I hope you know that it’s okay. I hope you know that you’re all I want. I hope you know that I think you’re wonderful. I hope you know that I think you’re every sunset and every thunderstorm and every cup of coffee in the universe. I hope you know that you are my entire galaxy. I hope you know that I love you.
everything I know, everything I hope that you know

// Love //

His love for her is so high
But she holds her heart tight
She doesn't want to fall hard
She's afraid of heights

His love for her, like the sun, it shines
Still, she covers her eyes
She doesn't want to get blind

His love for her is so deep
But she doesn't know how to swim
And she doesn't want to sink

I never did

My scars did not lose her, my hurting did
And did not. I did it, maybe, maybe not,
Like losing that one breath over the essence
Of a weak-willed wind, kissing the sad waters.
I did it, like time wasted over saving precious time, like
One of two great doubts has finally believed
In the other, becoming a painful truth,
A shadow, a light, a boat, an anchor, a clocktower,
Like I fully understood a green-colored sun
In a coloring book. But what does it matter?
What veil could hide the melancholic moon
Forever? I love her, like I did, like truly now,
But did not, like her absence anchors me to sanity,
Like missing her was to teach the stars of something,
Something like geography or mythology, like hazards
Buoy me to the chronic pain of safety, like to free-fall,
Quickly, as lightning or the peregrin. I loved her,
Like failing to whistle with two fingers, like
Reinventing Miro's Blue Star at a canvas, over and over,
And bungle at it. I love her, like it means to love her now, like
The urgency of loving me when I cannot love myself,
And she did. She did. I love her, I know,
I only know, because I never did.

And that’s how you’ll know.

Someone will tell you that she’s seeing someone someday and that she’s happy and your hands will stop working. You’ll have to work hard to hold onto whatever you’re holding. I hope it’s not glass, I hope it’s not breakable. Suddenly you’ll remember everything that you ever loved about her. Everything that ever moved you to tears, made your insides feel like they were tying themselves into knots. That she was loyal, that she was open for you, that she smiled against your mouth when you kissed. That it felt easy, like God had put the two of you together deliberately, like it had been the plan all along. 
But for whatever reason, you let her go and you thought that it was the right thing and for a little while, it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing. Except now all the parts of you that touched her knows that you’re never going to be able to touch her again and that hurts. Even your fingers are sad, even your stomach is aching from the loss of it all. 
You’re never going to get that again and that’s why your regret looks like artwork that would have been masterpiece if you’d finished it. Your regret looks like plucking a flower before it’s bloomed. So maybe you’ll call her and you’ll tell her that you miss her and she’ll sound gentle on the phone but not in love with you anymore. She’ll say ‘we happened and we were important but you let me go, I’m sorry, but you let me go’ 
And that’s how you’ll know.

#9

The thing with broken clocks is
that you can tell
exactly when they stop ticking
with people, its not so easy
and sometimes,
you cant even tell if they're broken.

Bleed

but her soul did not bleed;

and you could never guess if her
blood was red, blue, green or grey;

or maybe she did bleed, 

and maybe the colour was invisible
to those eyes that wanted to see, 

or maybe her blood spilled ink on the pages of her diary, 

or maybe it bled in the blue pacific ocean when
the hurricanes came and you thought it was
the moon and its tides to blame, or maybe her
blood was nothing out of the ordinary, and maybe
she did bleed when you saw the way she
smiled when her own touch bid her goodbye, and
when her own skin washed away where you touched her.

I don’t know

how to tell you this
without breaking
my hands.
at night,
i can hear the lonely
 hearts beating.
we’re all wide awake.
hungry for love.
with too much missing
in our chests.

here, listen.
 
i have become
a creature of habit,
always reaching for
what is not there.
my wrists are
frozen in time.
what i’m trying to say is,
 i love you
but in a different way now.
 nothing’s been the same
ever since you burned
down the forest
the wolf in me
called home.

never see her again

Loving her didn’t come in pieces,
And neither did it come as a whole,
It was as if she gave you a whole of
The different parts in which she had
Divided herself, her soul, into. The sole
Pure face she ever kept to herself was
Like a deck of cards cased to form a portrait
Of beauty in imperfect symmetry; only, if you
Moved one card, the whole picture would
Change, not because it was faulty, or because
It would fall, no; but because it would become a story
From another puzzle of hers which was
Stronger, harder, braver- but what mattered
To you would disappear because the grid
Of complexity which you were trying to
Solve would never be the same; she for you
Would never be the same. Loving her wasn’t
Hard, or easy, but once you loved her,
You would realise it was only a strand,
A nerve, a cell, of her being that you fell for;
It was like reading a single verse of a poem
Whose title seemed interesting, and when
You understood that one verse, your thirst to
Be gratified was quenched- but then you
Would turn the page and all your realisation
Would have to take a back seat because the
Realisation you made was incomplete, and
After another page there was another and
When you thought you had finally understood
The curves, and the edges of the words written,
The words would change, and the ink blotted
Across the pages would switch colours, and
The poem would always be left to be a mystery
Which you thought could be solved, but it was
Too intimidating; she for you was the only
Verse in your poem, but you couldn’t read her
Or her mystery because you were stuck in the
Moves and turns she defined, as she moved,
Into words that would play with your pen; words
Which once you saw would never let themselves
Retreat, or repeat. Loving her was not beautiful
And it was not ugly, because once you got a
Hold of the way she lived, and the way she
Tackled the skin of her body, and the skin of
Those she loved, and the skin of those who you
Thought didn’t matter, it was wondrous, enchanting
And sweet, but somewhere near that was a frost
Bite which bit her very soul, but her soul did
Not bleed; and you could never guess if her
Blood was red, blue, green or grey; or maybe
She did bleed, and maybe the colour was invisible
To those eyes that wanted to see, or maybe her
Blood spilled ink on the pages of her diary, or
Maybe it bled in the blue pacific ocean when
The hurricanes came and you thought it was
The moon and its tides to blame, or maybe her
Blood was nothing out of the ordinary, and maybe
She did bleed when you were hearing the way she
Smiled when her own touch bid her goodbye, and
When her own skin washed away where you touched
It, when she dusted off the dust on your summer
Coat, and flew it away with the breeze when it came,
But you will never know because loving her was
Like choking on someone else’s lies, because she
Would never tell you how or when or where she dies,
Because she knew, and she told you too, so that you
Would forever search for the date, the place, the time
Where she said she would wait for you to come; but
You’d be late; you know too, and you know you will
Look for her even at the very last seconds of your life,
Because you would give it for hers, wouldn’t you?
Because she was worth it all, wasn’t she?
Only if you knew while she was still alive; she had diverted
And flooded what you thought was the safest,
But she saved you from herself, isn’t that enough,
Now that you can never see her again?

#

I think when you’re 16 you don’t expect it to hurt as much as it does
but what the fuck would you know about love till it slams into your chest and knocks the wind out of your lungs 
so you fall in love 
and he leaves
 and you stop washing your hair
 and your skin is bruised with the creases in your sheets 
and your dad wants to yell at you but your blank stare just makes his eyes tear up and you’re not supposed to see your dad cry
and you’ll probably try destroying yourself because that’s what you do 
so you’ll pull apart razors and hide them someplace your dad can find them but they never do
 and you’ll start smoking even though it makes you cough so hard you throw up and you can’t stand the burning in your throat
and you’ll run away without ever leaving your bedroom 
and maybe you’ll kiss too many boys who mean nothing but mean all too much and they will all look a little like him or nothing at all 
and you leave him drunk voice mails and you haven’t stopped crying in 23 days and you promise you will never love anything again because it hurts more than they warned, 
no one told you that this was love
 and maybe it’s not love
 maybe it’s more 
maybe it’s something from another world
 maybe it’s just your bones breaking again
 either way it fucking burns
 and now you’re older
 and you expect to come out the other side missing a few pieces of yourself
 but sometimes you get caught up and you forgot that it’s supposed to hurt 
because it’s not supposed to fucking hurt
 and you blink and you’re bleeding again
 and it’s like you’re 16 all over again
 trying to rip yourself to shreds while you try to pick up all the pieces of yourself, 
everyone thinks you’re mysterious because your mouth is sewn shut with the sudden death of past loves but you’re just so fucking quiet because they’ve taken so much out of you, you can hardly open your eyes, forget about your mouth,
and I guess the worst part about love dying out is that you don’t die with it,
you just attend the funeral and visit the grave every time you’re drunk. You’re always so goddamn drunk.

Survive

I became so addicted to the feeling of nothing
that when I started to feel you
I went through withdrawals.
I wanted so desperately to forget about
the nice feelings that ran through my mind
when I thought of you,
because I became so intimate with being alone
that leaving the vast isolation of myself behind
felt like I was killing the part of me
that taught me how to survive.

We try to love what cannot be tamed. Wild horses,

vodka in shapely bottles, angry men and the things
they carry. We have done what we could. They say
anything they can to justify leaving. That we are
always sad. That we have let our hearts burn out
for petty things. That we are too fragile. That we are to selfless.

That we are too dependent.

They accuse us of being too sad to love. 

We’re not sure where we’ve learned
this, to want the things we know we can’t have. 

Chances are,
we are all the same, riding high on velvet blue nights.
Our weaknesses have names and phone numbers,
addresses we can send letters to,
describing our love and poetry. We are praying for sixteen again,
for clear skin and boys
who asked for permission before holding our hands. They say
they can find us by our cheekbones, that they are
small, miraculous sources of light. 

Sometimes we’re safe
but usually we’re not. 

The crime scene tape
should have been our first clue.

16 hours

my heart is beating quicker than it’s supposed to 
and I don’t think I can stay in the same room as
 you without falling from my skin
 and I’m falling 
and my heart just hit the ground and the rest of me 
is spilling out
 and this was supposed to be a poem about love
 and the way you make me feel like I’m wrapped in
outer space, warm under a blanket of stars, like 
I’m safe 
but I’m burning alive and stars aren’t as pretty 
when they’re hot in your throat 
and you loved me you loved me last night but that 
was 16 hours ago and 16 hours doesn’t seem like 
enough time to fall out of love
but it is
and 16 hours doesn’t seem like enough time to 
fix yourself 
because it’s not 
so I think I’ll stay here in the dark for awhile 
because the sky is pitch-black without the stars 
and we fell asleep in love
 and I’m the only one who woke up
 and I’ve been shaking you 
and you won’t hold my hand like I need you to 
and I miss you 
I miss you 
and I bet that you won’t call your 
father back 
like I do
 I fucking do 
and I see the entire world in you 
and all you see in me is a black hole
 and you used to like the way I laughed
and the way I tuck my hair behind my 
ear when I’m nervous
but that was 16 hours ago
and apparently 16 hours is enough time
to fall out of love

Six Personalities

Last night, I watched a video of a white man telling me how I could get rid of my six personalities.
His top ten tips and 95% success rate felt like a red marker rubbed across my face.
He spoke of me like I was a clown, an empty canvas and my personalities were paint.
He told me throw them away like they were garbage, consider them made-up people because I was lonely.
He told me it was because I didnt like myself. And that I needed to love myself.
Last night, I watched a white man bullshit me for 10 minutes like he knew a single idea of what it was like to have six personalities.
Like him standing in front of a camera and professional lights made him somehow understand what went through my mind.
Like this was a favour, he was blessing.
He chained me down with long words and diagnoses like a cage built around my thoughts.
A fucking white man, flawless life, thick skin speaking of me like a fucking animal, a retard creature, a living flaw, a sad excuse for a being telling me to love myself.
Why thank you, white man.
It’s wonderful knowing my six personalities put together don’t make half the person you are.
Maybe someday you’ll realise how my six personalities aren’t a fucking fabrication, rather a beautiful reality.

//Grey//

Did it feel nice, living?
Never

  What was it like, breathing?
Like the ocean drowning in itself.

  Oh. Your mind, why is it like that?
The galaxies live within.

  Can you explain it?
I could try. 

Please?
Okay.

 
There are 4 shades. Black. Blue. White and grey.
Black, feels like a 6 ton weight on a hollow chest.
Blue, feels like the sky floating within my body.
White, feels like the heavens took over my soul.
Grey feels like nothing. Nothing at all.

  Is that all there ever was?
No. But I decided this is all I wanted.

  What colour are you now?
Grey. I’m always grey.

  Why do you need the others then?
I don’t. But I want to.

  Is it better than most places, your mind?
I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been anywhere else.

I keep trying to write the most important poem.
About boys who stay away
and mothers who find themselves loving them
despite their vacant beds.
About sad songs that are
beginning to skip because they’re played too often.
About frustration and nostalgia
and sadness.
About the things I always talk about.
I run around this city in my pajamas and sneakers
doing errands and trying to look important, adult.
Everything is a question. Everything is like I’m
twelve again, taking out a hand mirror, studying
the new parts of myself.
How spooked I was
to realize I was becoming a woman. When
I was younger I couldn’t keep track of how often
strangers would thumb my face, talk about my eyes,
touch my braided hair. Say, “how pretty.” Say,
“aren’t you just the most precious thing?” I haven’t
been touched like that in years. The strangers
stay away, but there is a person across seven seas who
I know better than myself.

I would have loved him
in any era, in any dark age; I would take him,
slide my fingers through his hair and sing songs to him
As it is, this afternoon, late
in the twentieth century, I sit on my bed
still wearing my pajamas with my phone on my lap, pressing
the replay button on voice notes
over and over, listening to his voice
along with birds outside my window
as they balance themselves on cable wires
and stare off into the trees, thinking
even in the farthest future, in the most
distant universe, I would have recognized
this voice, as it would be, like light
from a small, uncharted star.

I don’t want to talk to him
but his voice is still the only thing that soothes me.
My body feels like a waiting room and I’ve already
tried pills, vodka and blades. Mascara piled on so thick
I can barely open my eyelids but the thing is,
I don’t want to see. You tried to love me once
and ended up calling me a damsel in distress.
I really miss you but I still haven’t
told my therapist. Sometimes it’s nice just to have
someone to talk to, you know? When I’m afraid
I sleep with the television on, volume high
so that the voices in my head won't bother me. Everything
is just static. I am okay. I. Am. Okay. I-am, okay.
I text people and tell them about all the fun I'm having but 

you're the first person I wanna talk to when I get a paper cut.
I sometimes compare my body to a junkyard
and I find bits of scrap metal beneath my bed
from people who break their promises. Maybe
love ruins you a little bit. Maybe we don’t care.
We are so young to hate everything so much.
We can recite the periodic table from memory
but still can’t quite believe it when they say
that they love us, too.

2 am

Maybe, poets write because they have unstable feelings.
Maybe, poets write at 2am, in order to ease it.
Maybe, poets write to contain their feelings in it.
Maybe, poets write hopelessly.
Maybe, poets write at 2am hopelessly hoping, that, someone, on the other side of the earth is awake to read their poems. 
And maybe someone is awake,
And maybe, some do care.

Will these feelings ever end?

It's been over six months now
Since I felt your body, breathed you in, had you in my arms
But here I am
Still craving your touch, the sound of your voice, the smell of your skin
What is wrong with me?
Why can't I let this go?
What are you thinking right now?
Thoughts like these overwhelm me everyday
I want to be your man again
The man that makes you laugh
The man that you have to wiggle toes with to sleep
Most importantly the man that makes you happy
Will this ever happen??
I know the answer, but I continue to dream
Everyday and every night you still cross my mind
There was a time
I thought, "Hey girl you are doing fine!"
I wasn't happy, but I was content, even optimistic
But then I get one text
I miss you it says
My heart sinks to my gut and just like that I feel everything again.
She tells me that she is still in love, that I stole her heart!
Its happening! it's all coming together!
Ah! A miracle! I'm dancing around again
Then.
Just like that the texts stop and the distance begins.
I don't know what I want she says.
And there I am again. Back to where it all began.
All I can think is will these feelings ever end?

~ ~ A guys point of view... cause men feel too ~ ~

Golden Flower.

I try to count the petals
Before you pull them apart
Flowers lose their heads
As they wager for my heart

Every flower is a gamble
Every petal is a thought
Will this one say I love you?
Or will it say I love you not?

Listen to the petals
They argue when they talk
One will say I love you
And the next I love you not

Some petals are poison
Every other is a lie
My love for you is something
A flower cannot decide

I picked you a golden flower
Whose petals argue not
One petal says I love you
And the next one says a lot

I draw too...

I knew a girl who liked to draw,
She drew pictures that no one saw,
She was most artistic late at night,
In the bathroom, out of sight
She kept a secret no one knew
She didn't tell a soul and her gallery grew,
Her drawings were different, no paper or pen.
But needed a bandage every now and again,
We stood by the river under the stars,
She rolled up her sleeves and showed me her scars,
She felt embarrassed and looked at her shoe,
I rolled up my sleeves and said, "I draw too".

I have never not known what knowing feels like, and not knowing what I know feels strange.
I know that there are memories and experiences and emotions I have learned to keep myself from feeling, but it's around that time when I need to recall them and remind myself that they aren't just fragments of a hazy imagination, rather a cold reality I have kept myself from tasting.
I can't differ stories I've made up from the real ones and I'm not too sure how I feel about that.
I feel like half a person, half a made up tragedy ©

Just tell me who you are.

i want to know your birthday
and your parents jobs

and if you ever heard them fighting

and if you love your siblings
and the worst fight you’ve ever gotten into

and if you like one sibling more than the other

and what you wanted to be when you grew up

when you were seven

and your dream vacation

and the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you

and if you’ve been to therapy

and if it helped and the hardest thing you’ve experienced

and how you overcame it

and if you like what you see when you look in the mirror

and if you think appearances matter in a relationship or at all

and your favorite movie

and which books changed your life

and the hardest you’ve ever cried

and which grandparent you loved the most

and if the words “we need to talk” make you sick to your stomach

and why and which holiday is your favorite

and which season

and which color

and if you like rain

and if you’re scared of dying

and if you believe in god

and if you have allergies

and to what
and what your favorite food is

and restaurant

and if you like to cook

and whether or not you care about cleanliness

and what your political views are

and if you’re a feminist

and your favorite flower

and song

and if you’d rather own a cat or a dog

and if you’d shave off all your hair to give it to a little girl going through chemotherapy

and where you’d like to live

and honeymoon

and what kind of gum and candy you like

and what you act like when you’re mad

and if you’d rather someone buy you silver or gold jewelry or neither

and what clique you were in in high school

and what you think your spirit animal is

and which flower you’d be

and who you admire

and which traits you wish were more dominant

and if you ever worry you’re a shitty person

and what hurt you the most

and why you ever thought you were worthless

and how someone can make you feel better when you’re sad

and if you prefer hugs or kisses

and what your house looks like

and what your dream car is

and which celebrity you think lives the most tragic life

and why you think people become so cold

and what you think about nature vs nurture

and if you believe in heaven and aliens and mermaids and reincarnation and the bible

and which feeling is your least favorite

and what was the best day you ever had

and what would be the best day

and if you see yourself as the protector or one who needs protecting

and how you deal with your pain

and what you would do if you had 100 million dollars

and if you think wealth affects people’s morals

and what good you think writing is

and if you could do it all over, would you

and what would you change

and what mistake was your biggest

and which language you wish you spoke fluently

and how many people you’ve loved

and if you loved the person you lost your virginity to

and if you realize you’re remarkable

and what your enneagram is

and how you think we could improve the education system

and what you think of people who commit suicide do you think they’re selfish?

and what you say to them before they did it if you could

and what your favorite memory of your childhood is

and how you take your tea or if you prefer coffee

and when you last wrote someone a handwritten letter

and what the best gift you ever received was

and what the best piece of advice was

and when the last time you cried was

and if you’re competitive about board games

and which is your favorite

and if you feel pressured to settle down

and what you notice first in a person

and what your top three pet peeves are

and if you have any phobias

and what you’ve always wanted to do but don’t have the courage to go through with

and what you do when you feel overwhelmingly sad

and if you ski

and if plastic surgery was 100% safe and painless, would you get it and where and why

and where you think home is

and if you think politeness is important

and what you think of indecisive people

and if you think there’s ever a reason to go to war

and something that scares you

and if you believe in therapy

and what you want in life

and what you look for in a partner

and what you want to change about yourself

and about the world

and who you want to be

and who you are.

just tell me who you are.

// Just tell me who you are. Like seriously. I just want to know you my dear reader(s).

 You can send me a mail at iammissanonymous101@gmail.com .

 I will never publish your mail and I will never disclose your identity.

 I promise to not judge you either :) //

to the girl he’s with now : I fear for you

to the girl he’s with now:
he will kiss you like springtime and you will feel the sun chase away the winter of your bones. he will make beds into castles and his couch into home. he will be a safe space, a deep sigh, a caffeine jolt. he will spread your clothes on the floor and spread butter on your toast. and you will love him, because refusing it is impossible.
 
he will buy you the same gifts he has given to the eighteen girls he’s been with before us. he will take you to the same starry places he bit my lip and called me perfect. he will tell you the same secrets that he fed to me. i got high on it, finally felt complete. 
 
one day the texts stop, one day he starts standing you up, one day he only kisses you when he’s drunk. one day you’re crying with your arms wrapped around a bottle of vodka because you don’t know what you did wrong but he doesn’t really love you but you’ll still fucking die for him and
one day you’re alone at night waiting for him to come home even though you know he’s out with someone else who actually makes him whole and i know this because right now i’m writing a poem from the dark space of our kitchen with my bags packed but too scared to leave yet and i just know if he could ruin me, he could ruin you too.
 
you’re gonna be his little toy because that’s just what he makes girls into 
and i fear for you 
i fear for you
i fear for you.

I don't need anyone else to be happy, but it'd sure as fuck be nice.

 

One of the loneliest feelings are not being able to love for a long time.
It's better to have loved and have it all fucked up than to never have loved.
At all times we find ourselves comparing happiness to other.
Constantly telling ourselves 'I don't need anyone else to be happy, but it'd sure as fuck be nice.

Tell me.

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. 

Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? 

Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. 

I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds.

Something that has always bothered me is that my family never sits together on the dining table. 
My mom always says that when you eat is the one time you should be free to do whatever you want to.
We never let anyone disturb our meals. And it always bothered me because maybe sitting on a dining table and talking about ourselves and our days would've managed to keep my family together. 
We don't go out on vacations, or for movies or dinners together, we all live separate lives. And while most people come home to their families, we left home and came to live in a sad excuse for it every evening. 
Even now, when I go to people's houses and look at them eating on the dining table, all I'm thinking about is if they'd be together the same way if they sat in their rooms as they ate. 
Am I making sense? I hope I am.

10 steps to be a better writer.

1. Write.
See the girl with the red lips, blue eyes and thick black hair sitting in the corner of the coffee shop. Notice the way she chews on the back of her pencil and jots down one word after the other, line after line for hours. Watch her cry. Look at the way she delicately folds half torn pieces of paper into the back of her diary, shuts it and leaves. Look at the way the boy on the next table spends 5 minutes staring at the lipstick stains on her coffee mug. Do the same.
2. Realise you are shit at it.
You can’t pull off lipstick. It’s all over your teeth. Your hair isn’t even thick enough to be put into a bun. You spill coffee on your pages. The eraser on the back of your pencil crumbles into your mouth and you spit it into your..coffee mug. You don’t know how to look dreamy. You don’t even know enough words to dream of. The boy sitting next to you changes his table because you’re too..peppy. You don’t even have waterproof eyeliner. You look like a mess when you cry.
3. Think.
How to be just like her? How to be mysterious? She had scars on her wrists and tears in her eyes and the sides of her eyes didn’t crinkle when she smiled. But you want to be just like her.
4. Find a boy and convince yourself you love him.
He’s skinny, he hates the sunlight and he smokes cigarettes like he were sucking on a lollipop. Tell him you’re the same. Tell him you hate the sunlight and put up black curtains. Tell him you love cigarettes and burn your throat till you can’t talk. Tell him you love him. Tell him you’ll love him forever and don’t mean a single word you say. Kiss him like your life depends on it, but you’re a living corpse, don’t you see? You’re killing the person you once were.
5. Break his heart.
Carve the map of your lipstick stains into his frail anatomy. Rip his world apart in a single meet and tell him it’s the last time you’ll see him. Watch him drown his thoughts in alcohol and burn the taste of you out with nicotine, do not be sorry. You’re just trying to be a writer. This is your story.
6. Push everyone away.
People will tell you you’re wrong, ignore them. People will tell you’re mental, ignore them. This is your story, not theirs. This is your writing, not theirs. You’re the writer, not them. You are your only god. There is no god you can relate to.
7. Destroy yourself.
Quit your job, fall out of school, vandalise a fucking cop car and do not be sorry. Drown your tears in mascara and wear your vulnerability on your sleeve. Frequently, to confront the fire, the firefighters have to create a fire. Do not forget this.
8. Think.
There is nothing left to do. Everyone you were, is dead. Whatever you knew, you don’t. Everything you had, is gone. All the priorities have been put into place. Your house is a black sea. Your thoughts, your only paraphernalia. This is who you were destined to be. You are your own fucking creator.
9. Realise you’re shit.
You’re back in the coffee shop. The table at the corner is empty. You reek of misery, pain, and desperation. No one wants to look at you. Lipstick smeared, hair chopped, cheeks stained, neck bruised, this is your new reality. Notice the boy on the side table crying, ask him what’s wrong. Listen to him tell about you how his girlfriend, the girl with the red lips, blue eyes and thick black hair sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, used to fold unnoticed suicide letters into the back of her diary.
10. Write.
This is your fucking masterpiece.

9

1. People will promise to never leave you. They will. It’s okay to be sad when they do.
 
2. It is always okay to cry. Always. Find a bathroom, bury your face in your pillow, and let it out. Cry in the shower. Cry in the car. Cry when you need to.
 
3. Boys will flirt with you for a while and then ignore you. Then, they will flirt with you some more. It will be confusing. You have every right to stop putting up with it.
 
4. Pay attention to what people say when they’re angry. When you make up and they tell you they didn’t mean any of it, know that they did. Also know that they wish they didn’t. Forgive them.
 
5. Never pretend to be someone you’re not. If you don’t like tea and classic novels, don’t act like you do to impress people. If you don’t want to wear leather jackets and combat boots, don’t wear them to please someone else.  

6.Your friends will not always be there for you. When you really need to talk, they will sometimes not want to hear it. That’s okay. Take a deep breath and remember all the times you felt the same way. Exhale.  

7. Tell people how you feel. It will be terrifying in some cases and gratifying in others. It will create relationships and ruin them. But speak your mind, even if your voice shakes, because your thoughts may never otherwise be heard. 

8. Sleep. If you go to bed late, sleep in. If you’re still tired when you wake up, go back to bed. If you can’t stay awake during the day, take a nap. Sleeping is a foolproof way of getting rid of your problems for a little while. Utilize it. 

9. Talk

Meh.

I’ve been thinking about something lately.
Imagine this:
You’re on an airplane, sleeping with your head against the window, your heart set on being home this time three hours from now. All of a sudden, something goes very wrong. The plane stops moving across the air and instead starts falling through it. The lights are flickering and the movie is skipping. The plane dips hundreds of feet in seconds, and the yellow cups fall from the ceiling. They’re a brighter shade of yellow than you remember, because unlike the demonstration, these cups have never been handled before. “Flight attendants take your seats now”, you hear, the pilot’s voice trembling over a cacophony of alert tones. You get that smell in the bridge of your nose like you’ve just been hit with a football. That’s what the fear smells like. The plane is going down.
 
Four more drastic drops in under a minute. People are crying. For all the folklore about how your life flashes before your eyes, you’re remarkably fixed on one vision – the vision of that one person you love the most. He is sleeping at this very moment, in a bedroom so quiet that he can hear the clock in his room ticking with every passing second. And you can see them, clear as can be. You wish you could see a playground or a first kiss, but all you can see is him sleeping.
 
Several long minutes go by. Then, all at once, the lights come back on and the plane somehow rights itself. Some people cheer, but most people cry harder. The plane lands about an hour later, and as soon as you feel that touch down – hell, even when you were within 50 feet of the ground and could still technically survive a fall – you realize that however you brokered the deal between you and God worked; you’ve just been granted life in overtime.
 
Here’s the question: what do you change? Whom do you call that you haven’t spoken to in years?  What trips do you cancel, and what trips would you book?  What’s the new you like?
Think about that, and then ask one more question. Why not just change it all right now?”                                                                   

Moon

you’re probably going to dance with another girl who will taste like fresh picked strawberries and smell like flowers blossom in her hair

and you’re probably going to choke down 5 jugs of beers and get the thought of me out of your head and focus on the girl dancing with you who wants to be your apple pie but you can’t see the diamonds in her eyes because you’re staring at the ones hanging around her neck and you can’t feel her pull you in closer because she’s reaching farther behind your head of dark hair and tapping shoulders of random guys she’s never even met

and when this happens I hope you run to the bathroom and splash your face with dirty water and vomit up the words you never said because while you’re out drowning your heart in things I shouldn’t care about I’m here looking at the moon whispering how much I fucking love you

and if you take her home I swear to God the moonlight will keep you awake no matter what time it is and you’ll watch it shine across your bedroom floor

and I hope the light catches your attention more than the sight of her would and I hope when you wake up all your remember is that daisies are my favourite flowers and you can’t escape the light of the moon

//Heart//

I
   thought
                My
                       Sensible
                                     Heart
                                               would
                                                          Hold
                                                                   me
                                                                          As
                                                                                 I
                                                                                    Fell
                                                                                           And
                                                                                                   all
                                                                                                        It
                                                                                                           did
                                                                                                                  Was
                                                                                                                         Dive
                                                                                                                                 Before
                                                                                                                                             I
                                                                                                                                               did.