Lilou

Writer & Reader Cancer | 17 lapoesialilu

[lilousole]

My loneliness was an imposition, which made me crave connection and affection, however it came. Affection had always appeared to me as something I needed to beg for, provide for so I could be gifted with it in return. I was tortured with who I was, and that I would never gain anything I hungered for if it was not for the admiration I returned. The cultish ways in which I aligned with others. A sheep amongst the shepherds which all guided different ways of thought and process.

[lilousole]

It’s seven am again

and I want want want

I’m a disappointment she said

she lets words pour out of her like flames

words that I myself know

somehow she knows them too

[lilousole]

inspired by

[mournfulroses]

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in "A Writer's Diary," originally pub. in January 1953

[lilousole]

wonder of the child

[lilousole]

And still I desperately secluded myself. I was devoted to loneliness. Devoted to silent devastation. And yet, I didn’t loathe it at all. I adored it, yearned for more until I was satiated. Insatiable for something which inherently destroyed me.

[lilousole]

I was too often anchored by thoughts and ideas and questions that had no answers. It plagued me, chained me, stained me with something I didn’t understand. I never would understand. That ambiguity of emotion and thoughts. Sometimes I wished I had neither.

[lilousole]

Mother’s youth was loud and boyish. Mine is smothered by the very idea that I exist a little too much.

[chillpotato]

Mieko Kawakami, from 'Heaven'

[lilousole]

Love

[lilousole]

It's Loud in Here Please don’t ask me when I am gone fluttering away into the deep scapes of my torrential mind the wind is rough and raucous i can’t hear past it  my memories carve letters out of me and scribble flesh to my ears  Don’t ask me that question  my name is no longer my name and your words are no longer words it’s not my fault so we laugh  you frown at me misconceived words scribbled letters of blood and gore Stop staring at me i whisper while that boy-girl tells me the answer dimly shouldn’t she be able to work it out herself? you say  i shake my head the rain is cool and it lulls me coos at me the sun is a beacon to the glass penetrating my world shards broken and sharp We walk down that path every full moon  i am poised waiting you catch me in my dullest moments i’m murmuring and muttering  so are my memories  the first time it was the beach that ripped me from the world it was the sand and the ocean  the rippling shore the soft shards of beachside crawling into my shoes it was the beer and the smoke strewn across the sea as that boy grabbed me by my shoulders reminded me we used to be friends Tell me what is wrong with this i can’t you can’t have said my name when he grabbed my shoulders he grabbed my soul he's sitting idle in a classroom  he doesn’t have these thoughts that i do no one does I’m pondering that memory of when we became friends and i can’t help but think why is it so loud why can’t i push it away last night i slept soundly we don’t think as we sleep when i’m here i think about my memories  they puncture my soul  they stab my eyes so that i don’t see the words written i see those inscribed letters  You’re smiling when my brain remembers

[lilousole]

Remember I remember the ways of the tide, the fresh froth shining up the beachside the flutter of the wendigo the mutter of the spider  sloping moon gazing upon me from that sky  that beautiful sky i remember that place like a scar scraping down my chest  like a tear marred to burning flesh it whispers at night  my ear burning at its cold cadence  telling me remember  remember my beauty  remember my song  remember the beach shore and the winking stars  the beckoning fish prodding out of the rippling water  and then come back meet us at the pond where the frogs leap and squeak where the rain thrashes and leaks where I dream and die where my eye submerges as it flutters shut where the world falls and life begins I'll come back once I remember your song once my scar burns with reprisal burns with desire for that pond and the winking pebbles leaping towards that sun that burning sun I'll remember

[lilousole]

The mountains are calling me softly swaying  patterned with cotton and silk waiting to sew me  sprinkle me upon each slope adorn me with bony branches, old sledges, the footprints of the past swiping me into a blizzard of shoes, starved stomachs, chilled flesh my sweet dreams, calling to me when my eyes close and it watches gazes, glares through the sunny scape scorching my eyes aching to paint me white and gold

[lilousole]

I have the anger of Aries, the stomach of a tiger, an insatiable desire to burn and rupture worlds. A need to touch something, to murder something, to create something only to kill it. Fire burns through my veins, flames scorching skin, scolding heat I am unable to silently escape. 

[lilousole]

I’m a child. They call me moody when I frown during times I should be smiling, like at breakfast time, when given presents, or at a baseball game, cheering on my brother. They say I want to argue when I am in pain, when my throat swells to the point of muteness, when my body numbs so entirely I do not move for ten hours, when my pain is hard to contain, bubbling at the sharp edges of my bones, nibbling at thin skin and the whitely hue upon my cheeks.  I try to tell them what I feel, who I feel, entirely, so terribly that it contains me. A moment in passing, a comment I never forget, a lie I forget to solve, this maddening desire to love  yet knowing love will never find its way to me. Anger instead thrashes down upon me, tidal waves of fire and agony, all enclosing around my ribcage, bludgeoning what is left of my heart, beating rhythm to a tribal drum from faraway land, peaceful and alone.

[lilousole]

She was love-washed peonies and tulips bunched together, a silk ribbon knotted through thick sage stems, ballerina-polished fingernails dusting through fallen camellia petals, and watered-down wine that stumbled through her legs. She could be darling, beautiful, dazzling, perfect, the sunrise which provided life, yet the sunset that darkened skies, broadened uncertainty. Yachts through nautical taffeta, clashing through my unfortunate midnight dreams, a nightmare dressed in your distant fantasies, ravens dancing through eager tornados, breaking against thrashes of rain, crows with pins as beaks, fangs for teeth. And she came to me, late, the hours in which she strayed through the night, searching, heaving, snarling. She spoke through her shark knives, sharpened each enamel with her crimson tongue, and I closed my eyes, waiting for her whisper. Moments passed, the blades broadening, mouth opening, breaths bleak, prickling my ears, and she said, wait for me, bloodlust sparkling her fangs. Next I saw her, the moon had vanished, and the sun was painted in a feverish glow, she again was darling and pink, soap and glitter, coral eyelids and ivory lips. A wink and a smile was all she gave me. She kissed me through her afar glance, and wrinkled my pale cheeks.

[lilousole]

There’s a certain feeling you get when somebody dies. It is indescribable, at least until you feel it yourself. It tastes like nothing at first, but when you start to swallow it, it may taste like woe and despair, or guilt and bereavement. And finally, when it reaches your stomach, swirling down to your small intestine, it will leave an aroma filled with cold hopelessness. Things may taste different if their death doesn’t affect you, if you weren’t close, perhaps if they were your mother’s best friend’s aunt. Or, I suppose, not all tastebuds are the same. Maybe you took a part in the death, cut off their blood circulation by gripping their neck like an old noose, took a dull dagger and tore out their heartbeat, pushed them off of a balcony so that they were impaled by the thin point of an ice statue, displaying Ares in ice-blue form, galea helmet with a thick cerulean plume, and his long, resolute, sharp spear, arching towards the sky, or in this case, the golden chandeliers. Ares, God of War. Anger and blood. Death and bereavement are his karmic revenges.

[lilousole]

I felt breathless. I was breathless. What did oxygen mean when each breath of mine was full of him? I wanted to draw him close and say a million things, ask him a million questions, but I couldn’t. And somehow, it felt better that way. To look at each other, for my gaze to trace over every magnificent contour of his face, to memorize the specks of vibrancy in his stone orbs, the color of his hair that wasn’t raven or onyx or obsidian; it was unique, and had no word for it. That was just it; there was no word for how I felt for him. God, there just wasn’t, and I couldn’t understand any of it. Why I felt this way. Why I needed him so badly. Why it felt that if he pulled away, I’d forever feel cold.