i’m trying to write myself out of oblivion

poetry, prose, fanfiction, and everything in between | wren / jessica | she/her

[dulcettone]

i wanted to write us into the stars.

but what a shame; i forgot we can’t see them anymore.

— but is it really?

i think it’d be alright if we were written into the galaxy even if those below couldn’t see. it is not our fault that they decided to pollute the world, to scare us away with lights and smoke and mirrors. it is not our fault, that the stories we etched with the ink of a smile will not be read by others. to be seen is not the end all, to be known is not the goal.

i would just like to write us in the stars, because i think it is something soft that we all deserve. i would just like this monument for all we have gone through, this constellation i can pray to when the days are too sad to go through.

it is a shame that we don’t see the stars anymore.

but you know,

they’re still there.

i don’t mind wishing on things i can’t see.

[dulcettone]

well i learnt of exhaustion like this; hidden in the crooked crevices of free time, surprised out of me when someone sends me a text comprised of “onto the next?” 

i learn of it the way you learn something you’ve already known in the back of your mind. it’s more confirmation than anything, a reminder that every step you take has something heavy in it. it is more like an old friend who grabs onto you when you don’t want to follow, but the history there is too deep to just wade past.

do you know how many syllables “tired” has? did you sound it out to check? did you notice that saying it aloud sounds like an exhale? i think it’s nice that admitting that you’re tired feels like letting out a breath. i think it’s strange how if you say it enough it stops feeling like a word at all.

i don’t know, really, but i do know is that you can bear a lot of things for a long time, that you can get used to things even if you may not want to. i am tired, and exhaustion is a cape over my shoulders i don’t know how to undo. i am tired, and i no longer remember what it’s like to not. and that’s, really it, there’s not much else to write poetry about.

i’m just a little exhausted, is all.