If I'm Not Breaking Up, I'm Breaking Down

shitting and showing.

[awwwwwwbry]

Idoltry

I keep reaching

Towards

The alter I’ve built.

A mirror,

You call back my vices,

A voice that says

“Come as you are:

Disorder,

Chaos,

Impulse.

Lay here and be loved.

Lay here and be consumed.

Lay here and crave me for all that I am,

As I was and will be

for everyone else.”

a.h.

[skogrn]

new zealand by samuel elkins

[anamorphosis-and-isolate]

― Frances Ha (2012), dir. Noah Baumbach

[itchycoil]

My favorite part of this is how immediately after she says this she’s like “or , I don’t know. I’m gonna go home lol” like the profundity of her own statement doesn’t even register … incredibly relatable

[vanish]

[recklesstendency]

stressed out of my fucking my mind, but you

We do not have perfect days. Instead, I lay next to you as you night sweat, snore, and occasionally fart next to me. I lay here understanding that we are the agalmation of our faults, our frustrations, quick tempers, my drunken misconduct, bleary hangovers, and painful silences. But in the cracks of foundation I have learn that the most beautiful things do indeed grow, the parts that I bring out in you, and you in me: my awful laugh, your sarcastic wit, and our combined efforts to shut out the entire world for 48+ hours.

These are but a few things about our life (as I am already over sharing), this small home we have built, this commercial break of bliss, this love that is ours to expressed only in fragments through images and words.

What remains is countless brunches in bed, serial killer podcasts, puppy cuddles, a deep love of eye contact and onesies. And if you’ve got that, I’d say you’ve almost got it all.

[recklesstendency]

You

our lips hang

like nooses

waiting to take 

the held breath

that holds us upright.

        my spine fails

        falling forward

        slow motion

this cascade,

a foundation.

this climax,

a building,

i catch myself 

as you close your eyes.

      a reflection of reverance

still breath and closed eyes,

all too,

familiar.

.

[recklesstendency]

Old

I laugh at myself a lot. The way it echoes in the shower makes my insides ache. All that hollow happiness hitting me frontal. I get sick inside when I’m too satisfied. Survivor’s guilt. I feel like a glutton in life if things are going too perfect. I keep thinking I should punch you in the face. For everything. For nothing. For anything. I catch myself living for the experience, and I know this will never be a story I tell. There’s things I get ashamed about. The rooted feeling that only surfaces in a sweet ache. Imagined possibility, denied responsibility, and drunken vulnerability. I don’t sleep soundly next to someone. My pride doesn’t keep me. But I haven’t kept me either.

[recklesstendency]

There’s a scar on your right arm.

There’s a patch of white flesh,

Notching your left brow.

Your skin is ombring from the neck

Down.

Pigment giving way to a collection

Of pale circles that I trace

When your dreams

Knock your body side ways,

A violent twitch

That proceeds a deep inhale

Of resolve.

I hope that part of your

Unconscious, dreaming self

Feels my comfort;

That it quiets some storm

Deep inside,

Like you’ve quieted

Mine.

on you sleeping next to me while I write // a.h.

[awwwwwwbry]

#NowPlaying I Do Sing For You by Majical Cloudz

[awwwwwwbry]

This morning I woke up to you crying.

I stretched out underneath the limbs

That we cradle

To keep us from everything

Our legs 

(yours

particularly)

endless.

I rolled into your neck only to realize

Your mouth was set in line 

With a sharp jaw

And

Water from your eyes was

Working its way down 

The cheeks that I’ve learned

Like the back 

Of my favorite book. 

Raising up

From the mass

Of us

To understand

What went wrong between 

The time I fell asleep 

From exhaustion 

And belly laughing 

To waking up to birds

Calling out the day

I turn and meet your deep brown

Gaze.

I fall into your unflinching eyes

Asking me to stay longer than we have.

a.h.

[awwwwwwbry]

starting to prefer the long armed distance of awkward prom dancing

It’s around one AM and I just woke up from falling asleep with the lights on. Not a cute sleep, half my face is covered in drool and the other is a deep divide of red where my pillow case tried to wedge itself deep into the shedding cells of my outer skin. I feel like the crack in my breast plate creaks out Day 13, 14, 15, echoing a reminder of the time past since we quit each other.

Today was the first day I heard silence. The first day I stopped waiting for a text message that would call me back like a beam of light peering out into foggy blackness.

I stopped waiting.

Its been two weeks since I sat watching the sheets settle where we last lit into each other and I’m staring at what I think is a black mark from the boots you wore in my bed. I have a date tonight, and I’m considering staying in, wallowing, letting myself indulge in the why and the how and the what’s, but instead, I go.

I walk into a poorly lit bar with too many people. I genuinely could care less if hell opened up and reclaimed this place, but tonight, I’ve got someone to meet.

It’s 5am, we’ve talked about her parents and aspirations. I’ve met most of her friends and we keep making plans for the weekend. It’s almost as if we’re trying to prevent the inevitable break down of us by staking claim in a time share out of reach from our idle hands.

(These words would hurt her. I know because…)

I’ve grown familiar to her sounds and sit, shaking and sweating as they reviberate apart from us in the walls. This is the starting over, the retracing of new lines. It’s the optimism and hope held out in the way she says she wants me. I’m still getting over, but at this point I’ve lost track of what or who or which one.

A collection of skeletons sit lighting the tips of their colliding memories on fire. I’m all smolder and ash, just waiting for this all to pass; a highway sign that just wants to be left blank and green and alone.

a.h.

[awwwwwwbry]

#NowPlaying Watering Can by Liza Anne

[recklesstendency]

I’m starting to realize the beauty, the preciousness of endings. The broken egg yolk of becoming, the scrambled mess that marks the moment of contrast… what was, and what it has become. Everything ends, if I could hold that thought in my hand while I hold yours also…to see that there is something moving us all and at the simultaneous moment, nothing. But all is not lost, just like matter, it cannot be destroyed…somewhere apart from our intentions, our failures, our inadequacies, sits a moment in time, you chasing me, and I wanting to be caught and known only by you…that moment so precious in its temporal state, no longer owned by either, but twisting and turning, bright and warm with nostalgia 

a.h.

[recklesstendency]

Poem a Day

I’m chocolate milk

And black coffee

Go ‘fuck yourself’s

And 'I’m sorry’s.

I am lock jawed

And loud mouthed

Asking for love

While putting it out. 

a.h

[awwwwwwbry]

The mourning period of an almost love looks like 4 a.m. asking rhetorical questions like “am I unlovable?” “Should I go for a run?” “Should I just invest in a vibrator?” These are the petty concerns, the all encompassing over-analyzations that keep me from sleep, a cycle I so desperately need to let all of this fall away. For me, it all feels like mourning. Grappling with the absence like a tongue rolling over the space of a missing molar, I realize that I have forgotten to delete my iMessage history on my laptop. My fingers twitch knowing that one lazy scroll could propel me back into a steady stream of nostalgia, but I resist. I click the grey x and my Mac, which I now will refer as conniving bastard, asks me if I want to delete this permanently. The bastard stares back defiantly illuminating the cancel button. I feel it’s fingers tapping. It says things like, “it was only a month Jesus” and “you always care too much anyways.” I let it bully me. I delete every technological trace and lean back letting the screen loose light. I see my reflection in the blackness. I feel the ache of unrealized potential, like when my brother stopped listening to good music, or when my dad has a moment of introspection and rounds out the sentence with words like “fag” or “trump.” I don’t understand many parts of my existence…especially the hope I hold towards things that will always disappoint. But I’m coping, and for now, that’s enough.

[awwwwwwbry]

mixing metaphors

Under the plethora of sheets I swath my body in darkness and warmth, I hold myself here hoping not to stir when you open the door. Come on, play it cool, play it dead baby. That’s how they like you, cute and cold and offering no biting bitterness. I am all suffering. I try to hold it in my hands to shape words that I already hold in my mouth. Those words taking up residency so long they go soft in the spit that accumulates behind my tongue. I’m always swallowing so loud…my gulping noise giving me away, red handed, to the discomfort I hold towards my own existence.

[awwwwwwbry]

I want to be able to grow things. The lofty love of letting something become simply by giving it the things it needs. 

I want to be able to take these menial words and offer them up to publishers and not say please, but instead explain the need in all of this flaying of skin, the stripping of it down to its cells and arranging it in a way that it takes on a life apart from me. What it would be like to have the confidence to fight for the things I deem important in such a subjective,creative form...

what risk, what brutal beating, what bruising beauty...

to love and let live, to hold things so close, in such an intimate capacity, but to understand in the midst of that gripping, palpable desire,

their need for air. 

why in this life have I realized the inevitability of loss, but spent not one moment preparing? Instead, I turn ostrich and stick my head so deep in the cool and black and hope never to come up, holding onto the blackness until I’ve hurt myself far worse than the consequence of living itself.

Why haven’t I given myself what I need?