fae

⁀➷。a stream of thoughts

[lovenbones]

i want love to consume me

[lovenbones]

I Watch My Girl Through My Starlite Eyes

First day I saw Her, I was at Sea. Boundless hands. Anchored steps. Buoyant smile. I think: a girl like that does not know what she's looking for. Then she sees me, bare and ordinary. Once. Twice. "You could do better than that," the coaxing lady tutted, and My Girl nods. I watch her leave. I linger, and a beat reverberates in my soil ichor. When her face looms over again, and her hair engulfs me almost entirely, she whispers she's going to find a fitting name for me. And she smiles complacently. She has me on a table where she rests her hands. An older man is sitting next to her. Bubblegum vapor escapes his mouth. She asks him of camel urine, and he answers her with rapt ardor. I hear him say that faith is incongruous with reason that she knows of today. And My Girl nods eagerly, like she believes she could hold it.

When she names me, an utterly abhorrent name, I almost burned her with my gaze. "Patrick, 'cause it looks like it," she said facetiously to the ladies with lipstick and ghost smiles, "Patrick Ziadah," she whispers, earning a visceral slap from the girl next to her. And she laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

She takes me wrapped in plastic. She takes me to a room with a heat seizing me dry. She mutters an apology like this is something she could compensate for. And she scorns, just a tiny bit. I wonder if there was a time when she was little, dirt smudged on her nose and pebbles in her nails, she tended to life that wasn't like her own. A life like mine. Here are some notes in regard: My Girl likes her table clean. When it isn't, she is found sitting nonplussed at the corner--knees tucked in her chest, a stubborn immobility setting at the center of her mind. A picture in her hand. The room and I are terribly addled, smelling the drag of her days. She likes to stand in front of a mirror, hands reaching out to her young face, striking with rancor. She tries to recount the Older Man's words about faith. I could see it when she places things back the way she liked them. And I could see it when she closes her eyes, apologizing on her purple mat with uncanny proficiency. I think she's afraid of clutching onto a life that isn't her own. My leaves are wilted. Why are her hands cold? Why has her absence become faithful? I think it isn't much time before my color fades completely. My Girl sees this and cries. She apologizes, desperately, and I know it is a mantra etched onto her. I know this, and I am sorry, My Girl. She will be alright. I will be, too. Time slips away from her youth, and I am Starlite, caught in her eyes. The room tells me of the grief and the keen souls. I am relieved, for I know that it will allow me to be anywhere without a vessel keeping me at bay. I will linger at Sea, on par with the first time I saw her--choosing, knowing, watching. My abyssal luck. My drowned solace. My Girl and I, tethered within.

[lovenbones]

I Don't Know You Anymore, So I Want You

the vacancy of our chatroom blends into our tedious lives. separate, distant, unmoving. it's been months since i've seen your face, months since we've talked, and months since i've wished we'd had more time. we were both childish, but you were never cruel--never a mirror of me. i have your playlists saved (had you guessed how truly shameless i am?) because it's the closest it'll make me feel to you. there was a flicker of hope, actually, that those songs were meant for me. quite a stretch, since your girl-friends (girlfriends?) are far more radiant. we were never that close. i did care when you did too, once. and then it was gone. you kept caring and i stopped. i sneered, while you missed and missed and missed. now you're working hard, dedicating yourself to the world and its strains. i am rooting for you. i am always thinking of how nice it would be if i had learned to look up to you earlier. you think of me as singular now, but i never ever feel that way. i am still timid, still prone to loneliness in a crowded room. you are a part of the party, probably with a group of people swaying to the music. i should have absorbed your outlook on life, on trying. you are so much more grown (your birthday was just last week, and mine too far to remember.) we are young, and you are trying and so am i. i am always afraid that people doubt i'm trying, and in my head you would know. in my head you always wanted to know. last year you stood by me, near me, when i was alone and frantic and you asked and we conversed like we never did, like normal people. before i left, you apologized that we didn't get to take pictures, and i wondered why? how deep a dent had i left in your life? i wondered if you still cared. i wonder if you still care, now. i hope you don't, not anymore. you've got a vast tunnel in front of you, and i hope you never look back. (still, i hope that some day, you become a present moment. it won't matter what we define it by. i just hope i take one look at you and feel myself smiling, because you were there, and you knew. you knew me, once.)

[lovenbones]

Alas, The Unspoken Heart

sonnets are all i dream of. i think about love even when i am supposed to pray to God. how can i explain just how revolted i am by the mere idea that somebody would like to take me home? no merit, bare and tender like a cavern fire. i want to soar, but i've got no wings. i want to soar, but i want to be brazen even when unpeeled. i want to be known. they say to be known is to be loved; when i am alone in my room, everything this world has to offer to me as company becomes unrelenting. the street light, luminous and blaring, (stealing shuteye.) dust, sly and dilapidating, (swallowing things that were always good to me.) the wind, shallow and ailing, (waking me so the gravity of my disposition shakes me to sweat.) i start to believe nobody truly knows me, nobody has ever tried. i start to believe it is i who is near impossible to learn. underneath it all, i realize people know only what i show them, and my cutting resentment has stemmed from the notion that i find myself so utterly unbearable, i wish, with tireless fervent, i could scrape myself from their lives. all of me. i yearn for beautiful strangers. i yearn for people with steady eyes, and gold waving hearts. i yearn for people i will never be allowed to know. what stands in front of me: friends with their heart on their sleeves, fondness and familiarity seeping out of the corners of their eyes. but, God, tell me why i keep wanting more? tell me why sometimes i want nothing at all?

[luthienne]

Omar Ziyadeh, “Nobody Can Identify Their Own Remains, and I Am Unable to Identify My Own” (tr. from Arabic by Alice S. Yousef) [ID’d]

[lovenbones]

Little Letter From A Big Body

I was 15, right? How was I supposed to know I was biting the hand the fed me?

Well, I am 16 now. 'Bout to be 17 soon. Still callous. Cluttered room. Itchy eyes. Profound pondering that is really just, well, pretentious. Still crave the infatuation of boys with fire glazed in their eyes. Think it is what fills me, think when mine flicker they like it. Elated when they tell me I am pretty, make sure they see it because if they don't then what else consumes me? Don't want to be like that freshmen who is always alone but sometimes days get loud. This room is loud. Survival is being afraid it is slipping away. Miss my friends but they can't be kept. Miss my friends but they don't like the changes. From one form to another, routinely coming home hoping kindness would linger. Times now are what's easy right? So worried that it will be unbearable and when the time comes my room will yet again be a dusty attic. My blood is care. I am 16.

[lovenbones]

Happy New Year’s!

I saw this on instagram and I loved it so much I want to apply it in my life.

(Creds to owners)

[luthienne]

hey what if i kept trying anyway because it’s my life and only i get to decide what to do with it

[weltenwellen]

Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

[lovenbones]

Like an Infant

(...) Mama, I just wanna stop hurting. 

I have people that are dear to me. 

Their fire is never-ending, flames scorching my calloused hands and stiff shoulders and big legs. And I’m tired, so I hate them sometimes for it. I lay distance between them when I feel that way.

Mama, I push people away. Always have. But sometimes, I so desperately want to tell them it is because I’m no good. I don’t deserve their warmth and welcome. I want to tell them that I’m capable of tearing their ribcages if I let them linger too close.

Mama, I know you’re hurt by the things I’ve done. When I lay awake at night I pray that you’ll take me back one day, erase all of me until I am bare and pure. I pray that I could be loved just like an infant.

[lovenbones]

Thoughts On Being Alone

Sometimes I grow tired of staying alive. 

Waking up, greeted by shadows that linger on my floor, on my bed, beside me. It’s always cold, enveloping me with its biting emptiness and even when I curl up and tell myself it’s okay; it still feels like I’m falling.

I sit up from my bed and feel myself faltering. My heart is heavy in my body and sometimes I want to rip it out and drown it. But I cannot, my skin is far too fragile and my bones are too real. So I place my feet on the floor, open my curtains, open my windows and hope that I will not crumble under my thoughts. 

I thought I had wanted this; the solitude, the time and immobility. I thought that solitude will come with peace, but it is only great yearning of memories that jab at me. I am a ragged doll of my own regrets, and it is like a needle pricking restlessly at my very skin. 

Back then I thought that loneliness was just dull. It takes no space. It’s nothing compared to the inexplicable rush of chaos. 

How could I have been so naive?

The alienation is loud, louder than any havoc or explosions. It crawls across you like dark sand and it suffocates you whole, eating you whole until you become it. And how do you reach out when you’ve already been tainted with such a grotesque thing? How can you escape it when it’s convinced you that your cumbersome body will remain nothing forever? Untouched. Unwanted. Nothing, forever. 

[lovenbones]

Self-confession

I think I should stop feeding myself hope, that one day the sun will rise and my eyes flutter to welcome the soft tenderness of the morning dew. I think I should stop imagining a world where I am able to hold my thoughts, caress them in place and keep them locked safe in a box. I think I should really, really stop staring at my roof in the darkness of night and wishing they were stars to embrace me with their scorching warmth, thinking that it’s better than no warmth at all.

Because it will never happen. Tomorrow I will wake up anchored down by my bed, feeling my heart grow hot and tired. Just like yesterday, just like today.

[lovenbones]

We Are 14 and It’s Our Wide Eyes Against The World

We dance under the dim moonlight, grazing the ground with our damp socks that are soaked with rainwater. Our shoes are worn just like our eyes, lidded heavy with dreams we vowed to ourselves in secret at night. Tonight, we decide not to care that our nightmares taunt us behind our backs. The English teacher told us that morning to stomp on the shadows, embrace the aftermath of war within ourselves. So we laugh as the night creaks a wretched song, we hum a mellow tune to echo the whistling of the wind, and we skip over the rocks that resemble the heaviness of our hearts.

That day at school, we made sure to straighten our backs when a group of boys pass by. We hear them snickering at something we figured must be due to the infatuation they have for us, though we’ve never spoken to them once.

(We don’t say it out loud but seeing them walk off, teasing and nudging each other without a glance back, we wondered wether we were lovable for eternity.)