t.k.o

| an amateur at making life choices since '99 | | hopeless romantic writing her lil heart out |

[amateur-scribbler]

“I really want to be friends.”

We’ve both said that so many times, and I honestly don’t know what to say about us anymore; I’ve lost all words, reason, and rhymes.

Because we are just friends.

I know it’s what we both think will cause the least hurt, and we keep speaking it into existence while we brush off any I love you’s that annunciate the wrong word.

I know every friendship looks different but, people always seem to have questions when it comes to me and you.

I’ve been told the way we look at each other is not in a way that normal friends do. I know my eyes linger on you, and now I’m wondering if your eyes find me when you gaze around a room.

But, we’re just friends.

I think we’re rather good at it too. It’s not like we’re playing out a script that millions have tried before us and hoping no heartbreak ensues.

And, I think it’s fine that I love looking at your eyes and finding new shades of blue; surely, that’s just a normal platonic thing to do?

I really want to be friends, because I can’t imagine losing the conversations where you tell me not to worry about the words I said after too many wines.

I can’t imagine losing the feeling that we were meant to meet each other and trade stories, laughing at all the ways we are so very much alike.

So, let’s practice being friends.

We’ll get better at not reading between the lines. I’ll stop smiling when your name pops up on my phone, and you’ll stop looking at me like you’re wondering if things could’ve been different in another life.

just friends - t.k.o

[trashcangimmick]

[fullmetalfisting]

Me: *looking at a porcelain hand in the home decor aisle of a store* if I lost my hands in some kind of tragic accident, I’d decorate my entire home with hand-shaped things. Then I’d invite guests over for like, dinner parties and such and sit there expectantly just basking in their discomfort.

My boyfriend: Do you hear what you say when you talk? Do you know what you just said to me?

[amateur-scribbler]

Sometimes I like to hide behind my art.

I use it as a reason to tread every single self destructive path. I need inspiration, I need tragedy and tears, I need a hopeless longing love; I need to feel the melancholy and nostalgia that has fed poets through the years.

I need it, like my lungs need air. I need to feel the deprivation of all joy while I drown in despair.

I needed you, and him, and I even needed her. I needed every jigsaw piece that has create the mosaic that has allowed me to write these very words.

So hurt me, or make me feel a joy that stokes at all my wildest dreams; make me feel human and chase away the numbness that to poets, makes inspiration bleed.

tragedy = art - t.k.o

[amateur-scribbler]

I am an untrustworthy narrator.

I know this fact to my core, because in my story I’m the heart eating siren instead of the lovesick girl waiting for your call.

You set up a tent in my mind, where I swear I put up a giant red no camping sign.

You made yourself comfortable, took more space over time; you even decided to warm the space with a cozy campfire.

I hate camping.

I hate the temporary home. I hate knowing that this feeling is fleeting; that soon I’ll have to go back to my bed alone.

You make me hate it less, and I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or if it’s my subconscious trying so very hard to impress.

Am I changing to mould myself to who you want me to be? Or is it growth?

Is the simple act of changing just something that has happened with time? That is something I truly do hope.

I like the birds, their lullabies in the morning sun. I like the beach and I hate to say it but, I’m starting to think with you, camping can be fun.

You’ll pull down the tent as quick as you put it up, and with it you’ll tear down every single damn thing we’ve built up.

You’re nomadic, you float in on the wind. Camping calls to you because your mind craves change and you love to act on your hearts every whim.

I can’t make a home out of you because it will always be temporary.

I can’t spend hours asking myself if you are just another line in a story that was always meant to be cautionary.

nomad - t.k.o.

[amateur-scribbler]

I wish he was the right guy.

I wish it was the right time.

I wish he was different.

I wish he had truly been mine.

I wish the better he hoped I would find, was with him and not with some other guy.

I wish we had been better, that we were the kind of love that makes you believe that stars truly can align.

I wish he wasn’t just another guy in a long line, the next to step up will be fleeting because I still dream of his eyes.

I wish for more and I know it’s what I deserve, and I know there are those who would offer that love, on a silver platter it would be served.

I wish he realised I loved him like the sun loves the clouds; he was a blanket of comfort that shielded me from the scorching self-destruction that I often sought out.

I wish it had been us.

I wish it had been him and I.

I wish that when he thought of home my smile was the vision that came to mind.

I throw coins in fountains wishing for these things but, truly I wish I could erase this want to pull at every one of our threads that hang like loose strings.

I wish I could forget him and every single of one our what ifs. Most of all, I wish that for me, invasive thoughts of him would no longer persist.

the wishing well - t.k.o

[amateur-scribbler]

How do I kill the time?

How do I make it pass faster than it is? Because I can’t take another second drowning in the slow silent suffering that I’ve found myself in.

Because it’s killing me, this waiting for something more; it’s a train that never comes, a crashing wave that never quite meets the shore.

Killing time is the perfect crime I could ever commit. I’d walk away from the blue and red sirens, blood on my hands without any guilt; relief would wash over me with the knowledge that I’ve finally stopped the incessant ticks.

the death of time - t.k.o

[amateur-scribbler]

My best friend who has known me the longest, recently told me with only love in her heart, the man I am searching for may not be found on my current path.

Because I’ve made an art out of stumbling into men’s arms. One of these days my ankles may break as I stumble searching for wanting eyes that find mine in crowded bars.

I’ve gotten rather good at slipping from bed to bed finding warmth in sheets that aren’t my own. But, no matter how close I get there’s a coldness in those beds that whispers, “you’re still so very much alone”.

And, the moments of stolen laughs and kisses in the dark can nearly fool me into thinking that he is imagining a life we’re we would never be apart.

But, she’s right, like she so often is; I won’t find love by lying to myself that these fleeting flings mean anything more than what they truly are.

They are my fantastical way of being able to say I’m trying to find love when honestly they’re the perfect way to keep a brick wall around my heart.

I know why I do it, even if admitting it makes my skin crawl; I want to be wanted and I know my body has always been the easiest way to find that feeling even for just a night or however much time I can steal.

It’s comfortable, and the human mind loves to sit in that space.

I’m picky, and selfish, and scared, and insecure, and headstrong, and entirely human in all those ways; but, I won’t settle for less or hate myself for all the rather questionable choices I have made.

This is another thing my best friend held strongly in her mind; that no matter the path I have tread, there’s a perfection in my imperfection that guides me on the right path ahead.

love me - t.k.o

[sarahsinferno]

I Wish for Liberation

I sit in the dark, my thoughts a storm of fragments, and I wish, not with the innocence of a child but with the bitter clarity of experience, that you would feel the weight of every wound you gave.

do you know the sharp sting of betrayal, the cruel echo of a lie, the loneliness that wraps around the heart like a shroud?

I want you to know the hollow ache of waiting, the gnawing uncertainty that burrows deep, the sleepless nights stretched out in their endless, aching expanse.

I want the weight of your own choices to press down on you, heavy and relentless, until you understand the pressure that drove me to despair, until you feel a trace of my sorrow settling like dust in your own empty spaces.

you, who sculpted misery with your hands, who wielded cruelty like a blade, are you aware of the echoes you left? do you hear them whisper in your dreams, the ache you wove so effortlessly into my days?

i could wish for storms to ravage your calm, for the sky to crack open with lightning that rends the fabric of your peace, for the tremors of regret to shake your foundation.

yet, even as I wish this, I realize that suffering does not heal, that the flames of revenge only scorch the hands that wield them.

so, instead, I let the weight of my sorrow settle, a quiet confession to the universe that sometimes I crave for the scales to tip,

for the pain to be known, but mostly,

I wish for liberation, for the shackles of my anger to fall away, and for a heart that no longer clings to the shadows of the past.

so I let the wish drift, a bitter gust of wind that fades into the void, and I turn away, searching for a release from this desire, for a way to mend the broken pieces without adding more shards to the world’s already jagged heart.

S.T. 2024

santa rosalia by roberto ferri(1978) oil on canvas

the shepherd david by elizabeth bouguereau(1895)

dancers by franz von stuck(1896)

perseus slaying medusa by laurent-honore marqueste(1903)

[amateur-scribbler]

Reading this hurts my heart in the best kind of way; my soul absolutely feeling seen rn

[amateur-scribbler]

March left like it was running late for a train, it stopped for no one and now I’m bracing for the never ending April rain.

The year ticks on, we’re coming closer to halfway. I count time by the days I have spent convincing myself to stay.

Stay in that job, and stay with that guy. He’s right for you and kind; they say he’s everything that will balance out your chaotic state of mind.

Stay on this earth, and stay in your lane. Keep telling yourself that it’s none of your business when you see your friends settle for another man they’ll kill themselves to try entertain.

Stay with the people who make you feel whole. Ignore the whispers that this weight in your chest is taking its toll.

Stay awake until 3am because time is slow at that hour, and stay in this headspace that eats at your brain. Watch every happy thought it takes its time to devour.

March left without telling me where it was going. Curse my traitorous heart for screaming that the act was achingly reminiscent of you and the way you kept my tears overflowing.

Stay with you, even when your words are shredding scars in my every side.

I listened to every one of your whispered promises that told me you would love me, given time.

Another month passes and I’ll convince myself to stay, even when the tally of days tilts to being spent feeling more tragic than sane.

stay - t.k.o

[amateur-scribbler]

I want you to give me something to write about.

Draw circles around my name with a brush dripping in red paint, as you choose your next victim whose heart you will inevitably break.

Or maybe you could leave me in the wake of one of your self destructive hurricanes, the very same storms that we both find ourselves creating time and time again.

Let me be one of the stops on your next apology tour so I can sit with the guilt in your eyes.

Your silent shame and I will greet each other like old friends. I know it well, and it loves to watch as I find new ways to push my loved ones to their wits end.

So, give me something to write about; whether it’s making me get lost in small smiles or well crafted words you throw when you’ve decided it’s been too long since you last let yourself self destruct.

give me something to write about - t.k.o

[homunculus-argument]

"Quivering" is my least-favourite word in the english language. Nothing and nobody should be quivering. If you're quivering right now, stop that shit immediately. Tremble or shake if you must but the quivering has to stop.

[camembertlythere]

[mxwillowneptune]

"i can fix him" ok well i can make him scared of me and hard

[charlesoberonn]

[woman-becomer]

tumblr users love reading. you literally stopped for this post just because it has words in it

[interpolationz]

this is one of my favorite bits about tumblr

the users seem to actually prefer text posts to anything else, and treat it as a chore to play a video especially with sound

[amateur-scribbler]

When will the last time I ever mourn us be?

Will it be a random Tuesday when my grief lets me go? Or will I always find a path back to our bed where you let the warmth wither leaving me in the cold all alone?

The last time I think of you might not be some profound longing thought. I might just find myself wondering if that guitar of yours is finally playing some happier chords.

The grief will leave but, that age old adage rings true; grief lives with you, but sometimes it gives you reprieve by simply stepping into the other room.

In that reprieve, the truth hits hard like lightning cracking through a tree. I’m finally realising I am only mourning the romanticised idea I made us out to be.

I’ll be the bride in all black - t.k.o

[wolfwoodbignaturals]

worst part about getting angry is how much it makes you want to be mean

[wolfwoodbignaturals]

sorry i said something dickish. a few mildly frustrating things happened to me in succession and it turned me evil

[amateur-scribbler]

And so depression will make her realise she doesn’t want to die, she simple wants to bathe in escapism and drown in it’s pretty lies.

A lie that built an imaginary world in which she was any other, an existence where her hopeless heart was never given to another.

Her heart was never laid to bear in front of his eyes, for her only to be told he’d never wanted the beating organ as his prize.

He wanted to escape just like her, and despised the anchor that she grew into much faster than he would have preferred.

He coveted a world where the rose coloured vision washed over him, and now she finds herself chasing that very same unachievable whim.

It would be an existence born of fantastical things, like him finally loving her and her always feeling complete.

“Complete without him would be an even prettier dream”, escapism whispers, giving its offer yet another fanciful gleam.

It’s the whispers that haunted her and made her leg twitch, giving birth to an idea that would grow like an unscratchable itch.

For how was she to feel at home with this longing unsettled sense, “how could she sit in her skin and never feel truly herself?” she laments.

It was a sense of craving to be where the grass was always greener, yet the blades never stayed that way and these whispers never leave her.

greener grass - t.k.o