I wish she would just expose me spill my insides with her cutting words At least then, the blow would be more direct instead of knives glancing off my mind shearing away my sanity piece by piece
j.y. 2018

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I wish she would just expose me spill my insides with her cutting words At least then, the blow would be more direct instead of knives glancing off my mind shearing away my sanity piece by piece
j.y. 2018
bright blue skies are distant; shifting strands of rain stitch clouds onto dirt stand witness for wounded souls; golden rays shy away from shadows water seeps deep
shadowed skies have their own kind of beauty // j.y.
‘choose.’ i said, ‘me or her.’ but it wasn’t that simple not for you it wasn’t coke or pepsi cats or dogs sun or rain it was the difference between ‘i love you’ and ‘i need you’ soft goodnight kisses or rough morning sex big smiles and tenderness and a girl that just made you so happy or late nights and alcohol and a girl that made you feel alive so when i said, ‘choose.’ when i said, ’me or her.’ you looked at me like i was asking you the most unfair question in the world you said, ‘i love you,’ and my heart fell on cracked pavement broke right down the middle because i realized that it wasn’t the difference between coke or pepsi it was the difference between ‘i love you’ and ‘i need you’ and you told me you loved me which could only mean you needed her
DizzyDaisyThoughts (via dizzydaisythoughts)
As vice has become so commonplace as to become mundane, the seedier parts of cities now bloom with new “green light” districts. For $200 dollars an hour, one can buy the chance to have dinner with laughing friends and to receive phone calls from a nagging mother wondering when you are going to give her grandkids.
Countdown is a strange app, it tells you how many conversations you have left with everyone in your life. It might display over twenty thousand for a younger sibling, and perhaps a few dozen for your grandparents. Any time the counter gets under ten, the app alerts you - with so few words left, you need to make them worthwhile. It is not uncommon for two people to check their counters on a first date. Sometimes the counters are mismatched, but I am sure you understand why.
Pinpoints of pain blur me Like the LED lights of a TV With no reception Oh, but then, a connection. Weary frustration sinks deep; How cleansing it is, to share an honest weep.
comfort is: a dear friend and a couch // j.y.
New additions to Netflix’s Horror queue: “Videos of You Sleeping”, “What Your Loved Ones Really Think Of You”, and “Ways Your Life Would Be Better If You Had Said No”
Ever since my grandmother died, I’ve been worried about the imperfections of memory. On long drives, when my thoughts inevitably turn to her, I wonder how the memories have changed since the last time I flipped through them. Was that the shirt she was wearing when she taught me how to make Spanish rice? Was her hair still black or was it grey by then? Did she make that joke, or was it my uncle - or am I mixing my memories like two radio stations battling for control at the county line?
Perhaps none of it matters. Perhaps all that matters is that I still think of her on long drives, and on late nights, and each time I burn my Spanish rice.
Rarely, autumn is not followed by winter, but rather by a verdant inversion. Dead leaves flutter up from the earth, back onto greening branches. If the season lasts too long, trees shed their rings and return to seeds.
the electric blue of a young girl on a dance floor reveling in her boldness before time drains it away. sheer cerulean ceiling; it's easier to breathe when I am held down. is it a comfort or a curse that our place is on the ground? the faint smears of acrylic in my skin drying before I am ready.
fading blue // j.y.
boundaries drawn
in black and white
for a love
in the grays
Silent Magic
The smell of rain in the predawn chill,
Footsteps ring louder to the mornings will,
Barges and boueys somewhere out in the distance
The waters so calm,
Too calm,
I don’t trust its existence.
Seagulls seagulling, the fogs growing heavy
Here comes the sun,
I hope that I’m ready
-Alex
they say our silence should be comfortable weight between us, though, always comfort and weight don't conjure up pleasantries you don't need to perform not for me and yet- one careless quiet away from toppling it all lack of faith my fatal flaw
inhale, exhale: affection and desperation // j.y.
i write about him too often for comfort, boogey man in my closet with poisoned coffee. he knows i need caffeine, he knows i need a place to hide at night from the shadows, too, he knows i need his approval even when i don’t want it, he has read through every diary i have kept, so i have started folding pages into airplanes in hopes of escape, but burning has proven more permanent.
n.b.s. (via catharticpoetry)
still-life; time without a frame leap seeping into impact sun melting titanium boiling blinding liquid-light-mirror
"summer." watercolor on metal.// j.y.
I force-feed this sorrow,
insatiable midnight hunger,
keep adding layers
to keep the ache at bay.
Drowning deep sadness-
inside/out, head and heart-
keep adding layers,
keeps you away.
My brother once showed me a piece of quartz that contained, he said, some trapped water older than all the seas in our world. He held it up to my ear. “Listen,” he said, “life and no escape.”
Anne Carson, “The Wishing Jewel: Introduction to Water Margins,” The Anthropology of Water, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry (via lifeinpoetry)