marker always dry cuz i never cap

prisonerofthemoon :p

[prisonerofthemoon]

when i get sick, i often have dreams where i return to infancy. they are my favourite, because my mother has that look on her face in them, like she believes i'll do everything she couldn't. when i wake up, i always think of the scratch tickets my uncle swore would make him a millionaire, at the bottom of his bin.

and i think of the hope people keep, for the rapture while god is silent. and how things look better in your head, before you try and draw it. and how potential energy is always the highest, closest to heaven.

i search for a reality in which i live up to everything my mother ever wanted and i find one, where i am never born.

[prisonerofthemoon]

the truth is i wish i could feed you a different story about love

but it's all the same;

you love so little

you long so, so much.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i fantasize about being gentle and sweet tempered. can they feel the shame that i carry? i live with a longing to be more but how can i when all i've ever known is right here, right here inside of me.

my tears taste of anguish and war while the sun faintly caresses my neck.

i wonder what will be my last trial, what will be my final act?

[prisonerofthemoon]

i was willing to pay the price as long as i had a little more than nothing. i knew it wasn't right, but it was something. it was an unkind, empty kind of thrill.

somehow, i ended up with less than what i started with.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i lay bare skin stinging under water that won't forgive the mirror fogs hiding whatever i can't outlive

numbness slipping my fingers still i stay still i wait hoping it will rinse away something i can't name or state

i sink softly as the water turns red just washing out whatever's unsaid.

[prisonerofthemoon]

my mother is a gardener of small cruelties. she trims the edges of me till i bleed, she calls it pruning.

i harvest my bruises at dusk purple fruit in the moonlight rose-pickered and fevered, i spill iron into the roots, and watch her garden bloom red from where i bled.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i take a drag from you and, like a second hand smoker, i watch your life pass by through another's eyes. and sentenced to life i am by this tiny thrill of mine. i suck you in and breathe you out, the prettiest summary of you will only last as long as i am alive and through my mouth.

you may outlive and out remember me, but we will both die at the same time.

[prisonerofthemoon]

you hold me in your arms soft and safe, and i speak to you slow and scared.

please don't go away with the stolen summer air.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i think people underestimate how terrifying failure becomes when something has been your entire personality for years.

when you spend so long working toward one thing, your life starts arranging itself around it. morning routines, sleep, the way you imagine the future.

and then one day it ends in the form of a number on a screen.

the worst part isnt even failing. it's realizing life still continues afterwards. the sun still rises. people still ask to go to the movies. dishes still need washing. and somehow the world does not pause to acknowledge that something inside you has collapsed completely.

i used to think hard work guaranteed something. now i think it only guarantees that you will have more to grieve if things fall apart.

[prisonerofthemoon]

loving you felt easy, like my heart had already known yours since we met, even silence beside you felt full of something warm, and i remember thinking that if life always felt this safe and soft, i would never ask for anything else.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i like getting haircuts, mostly because i've never gotten over anything in my life. for thirty minutes i can sit in front of a mirror and convince myself that shedding pieces of myself means i am leaving things behind. the hair falls so easily. i wish memory did too. people say time heals everything but i think time just teaches you how to carry things better. i have spent years pretending i am over moments that still live inside me like bruises you only notice when pressed. i preach forgive and forget as if i know how. but somewhere inside me is a little wooden box with flowers carved into the lid and inside it are all the things i still remember despite myself. the worst part is that memories come back so randomly. hot air near my scalp as i try to burn my hair to a crisp and suddenly i remember exactly how a certain day felt in my chest. maybe i am overdramatic. maybe i hold onto things longer than i should. but if forgetting was natural then why do dates stay forever? 24 oct & 15 dec new years eve 4:23 in the morning your birthday and, the day mine stopped feeling important.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i used to think there was something wrong with me for not having a person. like everyone got handed one at some point and i just missed the day they were giving 'best friends' out. i have people. at least i think i do. people who would respond if i texted. people who would show up if i asked. but asking is the thing isn't it? because a friend who only comes when "summoned" isn't really yours. you're just borrowing them. and i'm so tired of borrowing. maybe that's why i'm not that sad about leaving soon. because you can't lose what you truly never had. or maybe i will be sad. maybe college will be different. maybe the rain will swallow the people i thought i had and i'll stop pretending i was on the top of their list.

[prisonerofthemoon]

a pattern of deep cleaning my room, taking the trash and impurity from under my bed, and promising myself i will never let it get this bad again.

but i get messy again i leave clothes on the ground, forget to feed my fish and let dust collect on his bowl.

i sit on clothes and practice things i might say to you at 2am a few months from now, and think about the memories we could've formed if it wasn't for me.

i recite old memories verbatim and write words on scraps of my old physics notebook that i later discard.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i always wanted to save you so fucking bad from that place, from that little room in that little house that reeked of cigarettes and sadness so i brought you into my house into my room and i thought i'd scrubbed the scent out of your skin but my life started smelling like cigarettes and sadness too it wasn't your fault but, you'd been in that house so long you belonged to it.

[prisonerofthemoon]

i’m so used to people leaving that i started leaving first. i abandoned people in my mind long before my body follows, just to get ahead of it, just so i can say i saw it coming, just so for once in my life I’m not the one who got left behind.

i don’t fear abandonment. I fear the moments before it—when they stop asking how my day was, when I can feel them pulling away, so i have to pretend i don’t notice when i’m still holding on. but i can see it in their eyes that they’ve already let go.

my whole life, i’ve seen more backs turned on me than eyes looked at me.

[prisonerofthemoon]

my whole life consists of almosts.

almost is the cruelest word in the english language, it means you got close enough to see what you wanted, close enough to taste it but not enough to keep it. it means u tried hard enough to know what failure feels like up close.

i've been almost there for so long that 'there' stopped feeling like a destination and started feeling like a lie.

everyone tells me i have so much potential like it's supposed to comfort me, but potential is just a polite word for 'not yet' and im terrified 'not yet' will turn into never before i even notice.

what if i spent my entire existence being almost good enough, almost worth persisting, almost worth remembering?

what if almost is all i ever get.

[takkusbunny]

I didn't really move on. I just crammed my life into cardboard boxes and let everyone call it "growing up." The goodbyes felt too small, too thin, for all the things we were leaving unsaid in the driveway.

Now the silence follows me everywhere, thick and heavy, like it’s waiting for me to speak first. Home feels different now—not a place, but a weight. Every corner of this room holds a version of me that I’m forced to leave behind, a ghost I’m not allowed to be anymore.

They say this is just how it goes, new city, new campus, new names to learn, as if starting over is as simple as changing clothes. As if "fitting in" is just a box I’ll eventually check. But I’m terrified of who I’ll be when I get there. I don’t know if I’ll find people who feel like a Sunday afternoon, or if I’ll just get used to the coldness of unfamiliar rooms.

Something ended without asking if I was ready to let go, and now I’m standing at the edge of a map I didn't draw, trying to figure out how to belong to a place that hasn't even met me yet.