MORGAN

idk man ive never had a Tumblr 💔💔 I love art 16

[moreovermorgan]

Hi.

I’m your new jewelry box.

I already know your name.

What a beautiful name it is.

Your mother’s hands opened me.

Her mother’s, too.

They all sounded different when they touched me.

You are softer.

I will play for you when the room goes dark so you are not scared.

I will sing until your breathing evens out.

I will keep your rings, your bows, your trinkets.

I will keep them safe until you need them.

Hello again.

You don’t wind me anymore.

My song sits inside me,

unfinished,

It used to hurt.

I never liked having a song stuck inside my throat, but I got used to it as the years flew.

You’ve filled me with bracelets now

thread pressed into thread and pulled tight

Names that might not stay, but the bracelets will.

They smell like the ocean.

The ballerina likes it.

She has never seen the ocean.

Oh.

You’ve stopped leaving them.

You wear them all at once now

tight around your wrists

Im afraid you'll cut off circulation, but I dont think you care

Your hands are much colder now,

Your bracelets climb all the way up your wrists like youre hiding something.

l can see it in the mirror.

Im still watching even if im shut.

When you started doing that,

I thought I would be empty.

I thought I would finally rest.

Just then you gave me something sharper.

Something that is not jewelry.

You placed it inside me

so carefully.

But so angrily.

You shut the lid

like you were trying to erase what you put inside me.

The ballerina won’t stop spinning.

She used to turn because of the music.

Now she turns because she has nowhere else to go.

The blade glints even in the dark.

You are scaring the ballerina.

She tries not to touch it

pulls herself smaller,

spins slower

like it could possibly save her.

You know I can feel everything you put inside me, right?

It’s gone now.

You took it back

or lost it

or buried it somewhere I cannot see.

But something stayed.

There is a mark

in the lining where it rested.

Blood.

It still smells metallic In here, and I think this time its too permanent to go away.

I dont want to carry that, but I guess I have to.

You keep bringing me things that are not supposed to be stored inside me.

Things that burn.

Things that choke the air out of me.

The ballerina coughs now

a tiny, unnoticeable hitch

She says the smoke sits low

Her lungs burn, her eyes burn

She cries.

She says the lighter is worse.

She is scared flames will engulf her.

Even when it’s not lit,

it still poses a threat

You open me only to look at yourself now

Or what’s left of yourself in the glass.

I try to glue your face together like a puzzle

But you hit me.

You didn’t mean to-

Well, you did

I forgive you.

But your hand came down

and now I can’t keep you whole.

You are everywhere.

I show you too many versions at once.

Just like how I see too many versions of you.

One with stickers all over your face,

One with teeth missing

One with eyeliner and braces

And you with the same face but happier

I was made to protect.

That is what I was told

when I was first closed.

But I don’t know the difference anymore

between keeping something safe

and keeping it trapped.

I don’t know

if I am helping you

or helping you disappear.

I am tired of holding things

that hurt to hold.

The ballerina is still tilting and spinning, her lungs still burning, her eyes red with tears.

My hinges hurt.

Please, just open me one more time.

Turn my song on.

I miss you.

[moreovermorgan]

My Choir director had us sing What Was I Made For for our spring concert, and during one of the rehearsals she posed a question. What are you made for?

This is my response! :)

I was never meant to be alone.

Not built for quiet corners or folded hands,

not for sitting still like something ornamental

I was made for loud.

For sobs that shake the ribs open,

for laughter so obnoxious you can hear it across a stadium,

for voices overlapping like the prettiest noise pollution you'll ever hear

for so much life happening at once it can’t possibly be contained.

I was made for crowds that move like perfume in air

for strangers briefly becoming kind to each other,

for saying “you’re beautiful” to someone you’ll never see again

and meaning it anyway.

For crushes that arrive like fireworks behind the eyes,

for advice spoken too fast and far too honest

for singing off-key in a parking lot at midnight

because its just what my soul is leading me to do

I was made to love with the full volume of my soul

to overflow, to fracture, to persist,

The kind of feeling that vibrates deep in your bones and rubs off onto everything you interact with

and yes, also to ache, to resent, to freak out

because feeling anything is proof I’m still here.

Nothing compares to the joy of chaos and shared emotion.

The strange gravity of companionship that pulls in even the most stoic of people.

Nothing brings me joy like knowing we are all alive in the same moment,

Connected and sharing the same breath of existence,

Because even though its my perspective, this was never meant to belong to only me, instead to everything with the gift of life.

[moreovermorgan]

I sit and watch through glass that forgot it was a boundary

hours and miles resting in my palm

like the moon refusing to leave the sky just to see the sun

like a lamppost holding onto night a little too long

the universe forgets to finish connecting us

an invisible string tied to both of us

not pulling yet

just existing

vibrating softly like radio waves that know our names

his walls hum

like they’re thinking in a language I almost understand

and for a second I feel as if I’m there

not as distance

but as pressure

as presence without arrival

memory of sound before it learns language

the breath just before a song decides to begin

and I’m caught right there in the almost

somewhere in the night

he turns over

and symmetry distorts out of place

light breaks wrong

like a dissonant chord

A color that doesnt match the pallette

he is a rainbow at the edge of vision

undoable

Right under my thumb close

But never touch close

always just almost close

My screen burns low in my hand

Radiating heat the same way the miles of distance between us echo

a door pretending it doesn’t remember being opened

two presences

not speaking

but holding the same moment from two different worlds

like the Atlantic and Pacific

named apart

but still pressing into the same horizon,

touching without becoming one

he becomes frequency

but soft, uncalibrated

like the thought of a signal more than the signal itself

an outline of tone

a whole essay before it is ever wrote

taste without mouth

smell without place

light without source

I keep walking into it

not expecting a room anymore

just the feeling of him almost being there

[moreovermorgan]

I can’t read an analog clock.

I always tell people that.

I say the education system failed me,

that no one ever taught me,

but that’s not true.

They did.

I choose not to.

Because reading a clock means remembering

first grade,

the day back from winter break,

the morning after my life split

into before and after,

into the first time

of what would be daily.

I remember being taught.

I remember the clock on the wall,

the thin black hands moving

like nothing was wrong.

I remember thinking,

very calmly,

"This is happening, this probably shouldn't be happening."

I thought it the same way

you think the time.

Flat, unquestioned,

ordinary.

I was too young to know before.

Still too young now.

Still, I decided to protect him.

I decided to be quiet.

I decided to take it to my grave.

And mostly, I succeeded.

I pushed it out of my memory,

locked it somewhere unreachable.

Except sometimes it slips back in as a glance at the wall

to see what time it is.

I wish I could feel something about it.

I wish I could think about it long enough

to be angry.

If it happened now,

I would tell everyone.

But all I feel is nothing.

And that nothing hurts more than anything,

because what happened to me

should never have happened at all.

Still, nothing brings peace

quite like forgetting.

So I don’t read analog clocks.