bloomed out

[pendlewitch23]

To Top it Off

It’s begun to fade

The residue you forgot to take

When you left

The particles of your scent

So deliciously formed

From your very skin

Entirely gone

If I didn’t know better

I would think I made you up

Just another silly poem about

Longing

Loss

Memory

Desire

Let’s write a poem

about how I can still imagine

~your teeth sinking into my thigh

Your tongue

Moist, thirsty

On the deepest recesses

Of my very own peach tree

Finding the ripe opening

Dripping with a nectar

You siphoned

I can still remember

Feeling full of that honey

So deliciously left behind

Within secret walls

Meant for only you

Still today

A reminiscing

Brought on by my own scent

Tells me you were here

Made Manifest

[pendlewitch23]

The Tabling of Chaos

It takes a long time for a real love to emerge, fuse, or even to just click. It only takes a collection of memories dog tagged in storage to ignite the flame again.

A series of lives spent knowing and unknowing and remembering and forgetting again.

When I think of you, us - I feel this impending wave of bliss, the rare acknowledgement of present self as happy, the excitement of what’s to come next.

Each thought connected to a collection of memories in the time before now.

Perhaps you don’t read so far into it. Thinking me silly for such a sappy outlook.

I bet if you were here you would kiss me on the forehead. Linger for just a second longer than usual to let me know you see the real me hiding.

Is this why I love you so much?

This ease and acceptance - just generally given.

Handed to me in bushels like I didn’t think was possible.

When you’re gone I pretend you’re holding me in bed. My eyes soften and my jaw clenches as I soak in the bath of your arms. I almost cry when I feel your breath on my cheek, barely able to smell what you taste like. There are moments I swoon to the point of near death - my body high on your supply.

This is not one of those moments.

And pretending doesn’t always do the trick.

Even though it does conveniently pass the time.

You are greatly missed and I don't even know your name.

[pendlewitch23]

~

Being alone is like a 

Deep bone rattle

Shaking parts unknown

In spaces forgotten

Yet undiscovered 

Being alone is both

Exciting and exhausting 

Terrifyingly intoxicating 

Every second deliciously 

——-gut wrenching——

The inevitability of it tearing

At the seams in between 

My elbows and knees

Allowing me to return to infancy 

Being alone is never truly

Satisfying or comfortable 

Yet its filling me with familiarity 

Much like toxic fast food

You know you want it

But you're going to hate yourself through it 

Being alone feels like going home 

Whoever said it was easy?

If they did, their lies

Have caused much colder nights 

For those too naive to think for themselves 

And while we’re on the subject of sheep

Being alone is when the sheep have all been sheared

Naked, free, awkward, fresh 

But I bet the sheep didn’t plan

On how the razors edge would leave 

Their skin stinging for days on end

Being alone makes me want to dance and cry 

Tears blurring the lines of what it means to be a body

Moving to the pervasive beat of a bone rattle

Calling me home 

[pendlewitch23]

Why is it when I have a feeling to write - I can feel exactly what it is that I want to record outside of myself...and then I come to pen and paper or the computer.. and I just stumble. I lose all sense of what words are in fact; to the point that I'm stunned I ever thought I could write in the first place.

[pendlewitch23]

Desperately, I need to let these words fall from my fingertips. Release them into the tumblrverse and feel some relief. Almost as if on principle, I don't write. I agonize over it, only to never just fucking start. Some type of daily entry. A year of reports from the sidelines of my life. Maybe I just want to record all of my thoughts - my changing behaviors. Have something recorded that I can't lose.

but then i have nothing to say. at some point a wall was built around my ability to write, express myself, record. multiple journal violations has convicned me to only write, record, document - as if anyone, and i mean anyone, was going to read it. If I had known that when I was rehab - detoxing off meth and kratom, mind you - that my mom had complete access to my phone...if I had known nothing. It is what happened. Every text, photo, everything. Nowhere is safe but my own headspace.

chaotic good chaotic good chaotic good