(i wonder if you're thinking about me today)
Jules of Nature

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trying on a metaphor

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(i wonder if you're thinking about me today)
guess all of it really was just a dream your face, your mouth inevitably close to my mouth, or so it seemed told myself i needed to be dark today so i wore black lipstick and drank black coffee you really did drain all the sweetness out of me. remember when you forgot how to ride a bike you fell and you called out to me seven years old i was seven years old god, you used to play your music so loud heavy metal seeped from my veins my teachers would meet with my parents and tell them they're not sure where this darkness came from as if my emotions were a turn dial on an old stereo that you could fix with your little finger and i'd shake my head with a smile not sure theyâd accept the explanation that my hands are oak and my mind is canvas iâm only trying to figure out whether my heart is meant to carve or to paint so instead i choose to bleed. i bleed through indecision and his heavy metal and stale, burnt toast and that old rusted red bike.
"my old best friend"Â | e.k.
they say there are five stages of grief. denial. i forgot you, pretended you didn't exist, pretended i didn't do anything wrong, pretended i didn't care. anger. i was so mad at you. mad at you for writing about me, mad at you for sculpting me into a villain, mad that because of you, i'm no longer welcome in the only place i ever considered home. bargaining. i thought that maybe i could fix things. maybe if i wrote you a letter, or picked up the phone things could be different. depression. i drank earl grey tea and it reminded me of you. i don't even think you drank earl grey. i cried because i couldn't remember. acceptance. i haven't gotten that far. there are still letters in my bottom drawer addressed to you.
"the fifth stage i'll never reach" | e.k.
sometimes it hurts a lot, and sometimes it hurts a little. sometimes youâre sitting in the middle of a library and you got enough sleep last night and all that really matters is the work you havenât gotten done thatâs due in an hour, and this feels pretty normal. like you made it, somehow. sometimes youâre riding a train home and something clicks inside of you and youâre set off like wildfires, you become alight with memories youâre too choked up to swallow. sometimes nothing happens inside of your brain because itâs filled with thoughts that are deadly gas leaks. those are not the good nights. itâs scary because weâre all these little harmless bubbles, i guess. like we are full of stories and rhymes and thereâs no reason to us. and sometimes one of us just kind of pops, and theyâre gone for good. like you start having to say âyeah, i knew him,â instead of âyeah, i know him.â itâs scary. weâre so vulnerable. and thereâs no real way to know if someoneâs alright like if theyâre having one of those moments where stuff just feels human and good or if theyâre having one of those bad days where the sky tastes like whiskey and they just want to drown themselves in anything willing to swallow them up. like you can look someone in the eyes and say âiâm doing fineâ and really mean that if you had a shotgun and a bullet, youâd go through with it. like you can literally lie to someone about wanting to die - and someone can do the same to you. i wonder about that a lot, you know? like how many people i havenât noticed are ready to click themselves out of the picture. like how many people i didnât help because i totally bought it when they sold the idea they were whole and doing well. i wonder if they go home and think nobody really cares enough to look deeply. i care about you, i just trust too easily and i want to believe that youâre not dying. i guess thatâs just some coping mechanism, you know? humans canât believe the ones we love want to go. we canât live with the idea that theyâll slip under if we leave them alone, so we paint them with good swimming skills and not a drop of sorrow in their bones. or maybe iâm just self-centered and awful. i donât know.
10.13.2014 // r.i.d (via seaglasspoems)
the stars had gone out in her eyes, she said, âif the sun was ever warm, i donât remember it,â she kissed boys and girls and chalked up mistakes until her whole being became one and when he found her she was drunk and crying and shouting at him âWHERE THE FUCK IS THE FIRE iâm so fucking cold i donât care if i dieâ and he held her and put his hand over her heart and said âlet go of the winter inside of your soulâ and she said âI CANâT i just canât iâm lost in the snowâ he buried his face in her hair and begged her low, âthere is still heat deep in your bones, follow that song, my love. Follow it home.â
blizzard // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
fall in love with a poet
fall in love with a poet at least once in your life feel his fingers running through your hair have your heart pierced when he isnât even there
let his writing enrapture your sad soul let his words fill you until youâre whole
and even when he is long gone in his poems you will live on heâll remember every word you said and write you into every line on which his pen treads
fall in love with a poet, you wonât regret it. fall in love with a poet, trust me, youâll never forget it .
i love you. i don't. i wanted to. i wanted to love someone. i wanted to feel something, anything, really, and with you, i did. for a minute. for a second. but it passed, as it always passes, and i hurt you. i didn't want to, but i didn't want to love you either. not really, not completely. i miss you, not completely. i want to forget you, not completely. i'm sorry, completely, wholly, truly, i am sorry.
"your heart was never safe with me"Â | e.k.
Someone collab with me maybe and write another stanza? That would be neat
I am tsunami, tidal i wave; i will sweep you under to an early grave i am seas high and rough and tumbling, youâll fall in love.
but donât look now iâm skies away climb this mountain another day iâm not what you think not what you know iâll plant a seed and watch, it will not grow.
i. The first time you meet love, he is all clenched fists. He is all push, all force. All grab and tug but never pull closer. Never hold. Never touch. He is three years older and drives his fatherâs car and calls you âBabyâ. He is lips that will never kiss you, but you will touch your waist at the end of the night and feel him there. His eyes are all dark waters and you are afraid to swim. You are afraid to swim and he loves to dip you into the ocean to see how much youâll try for him. Youâll try for him and he leaves you standing neck deep in cold water. You walk yourself home and flood your bedsheets with saltwater, and you wake up the next morning and decide that you donât want to drown anymore. ii. She is soft and silent and she loves you this way. She loves you quietly. She loves you like roses with all her thorns cut off for you. She looks at you like she does not ache to touch you, like she aches to learn you. You have never met rawness until you see it in her eyes. You never love her but you want to. You want to but she is oceans apart, and you are hurricanes that are too strong and she cannot stand tall beside you. She is broken frames and cannot put herself together. You want to mend her heart, but you are not good at fixing broken things. iii. He is the boy who doesnât introduce you to his mother. The boy who kisses you at a party and forgets your name. You are his six oâ clock cigarette break and he is secondhand smoke that loves to make itâs way into your lungs. He is winter in his coldest form and and loves to keep his hands warm by touching. You are never sure if you love him or love the way he wants you; with pleading eyes but lips that never dare to give that away. You are never sure if you love him, even after he leaves and forgets what you tastes like. iv. Love is uncharted territory and you want to get lost in her. She is lost doe eyes and hands that want to hold onto anything to find home. You are her muse, but never anything more. Your mother tells you to be careful with your heart, but you spill it all over her palms and she paints you into art. She touches you and paints you all red, paints you all wanting for more. She has a mouth that wants to swallow you whole and you are willing. You are willing because you love her the way a poet loves his words. You love her in the most innocent sense of the word, but she wants someone whose kisses cut into her lips and leave her with the aftertaste of blood. She wants someone who breaks her because thatâs all sheâs ever known. She is wandering ghosts making homes out of human beings and she leaves you haunted. She falls in love with your words more than she will ever fall in love with you and you learn that months after sheâs already gone.
The times I met love. by r.b (via rbcages)
Someone collab with me maybe and write another stanza? That would be neat
I am tsunami, tidal i wave; i will sweep you under to an early grave i am seas high and rough and tumbling, youâll fall in love.
but don't look now i'm skies away climb this mountain another day i'm not what you think not what you know i'll plant a seed and watch, it will not grow.
there is no one in me to turn on my lighthouse heart. i open myself to the storm. i am too many ripped bedsheets and untied sails, too many red flare lines on dark nights from sharp silver canisters that were seen but never answered, too many s.o.s messages that have gone unheard. the ravenous untamed call of the sea has become static in my chest: i want ships to crash against me, i want to be death in a beautiful white and red dress - for once in my life, i want someone to worry that there is nobody here to guide me home, that there is really nothing left.
undertow // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
we lay with our backs on the wet grass and he asks me, âif the world was ending, where would you go?â and my heartbeat gets loud until it sounds like it is pounding out your name i mean thatâs the thing about scars is that you always remember them at the worst moments like when youâre about to...
when he tastes like bourbon and burns twice as bad, turn around, go home, donât ask him if he believes in love. when she is the forest and sounds like birdsong, do not kiss her hard when they smell like the last days of summer and smile twice as bright, do yourself a favor, do not stay the night listen, windstorm, listen, rain, you are too wild and you have too little faith and chances are, when you fall in love your little fragile heart will one day break.
little antlered one // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
i've been close to rock bottom so many times before, and i think that's why i'm so quick to believe that i'll never actually get there. i'll get better for a little while, long enough for people to stop worrying about me, and then, when i think it's safe i'll slip back into my old habits, and once you slip a little it's so fuckin' easy to just keep sliding. i'll slide and skid and keep moving backwards until i'm lower than i've been but not as low as it gets and then i'll climb back up, just to fall again, and the cycle repeats, and i never learn. i never learn, so i don't get better. sometimes i don't think i'll ever get better.
"i just don't want to keep disappointing everyone"Â | e.k.
i have forgotten how to be myself, as if once when i was walking in a dream i forgot to wake my soul up. maybe itâs curled up sleeping in some far spiral of my fingerprints, maybe thatâs why my hands are always trembling. my sister tells me she canât figure me out. she says the attic light is still flickering but the rest of the house looks dark. she says if you stare too hard at my eyes, you can see a noose up on the roof beam. she says i am standing on a stool, trying to decide if my life is worth taking. i donât know how to control myself. i lie awake at night wondering why i did things that make me cringe as soon as they happen. i lie awake asking myself how hard it would be to be normal. i tell myself that tomorrow, i will be perfect. i wonât laugh too loud, i wonât be a burden, i wonât speak unless i have to. i spend so much time worrying about being perfect that i never get it right. please - i just want to be liked.
11.24.14 // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
i am made up of nights just like these where my chest gets so tight even my blood wants to breathe who am i to deny the ecstasy of air to the only proof of my heart thatâs always been there?
sharptooth silver and bad moon // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
IN DEFENSE OF TAYLOR SWIFT: in freshman year, you try to be cool by cutting back your vocabulary and using the word âgayâ with a strange heavy weight. you think about girls when you go to sleep: how their lips would taste, their laughter, how you fall in love with everyone you meet. you are so used to hearing âgayâ as an insult that you use it absently, even though it defines who you are, almost like you know you are harboring a demon. in two years, the world will change and everyone who has said awful things about you and your friends will suddenly strut around school with rainbow ally pins. in junior year you wear a skirt that falls above your knees. halfway through lunch you call your mom crying. you feel like a monster. the word âslutâ has tattooed itself across the inside of your thigh. your math teacher had pulled you aside, had expressed concern for âthis kind of behaviorâ. you wear baggy clothes for the rest of the year, never try to step out dressed in risky, never try to be pretty. later when you see girls who wear the clothes you wish you could, you hiss the same word that you heard. in four years, the world will change and you will learn what it means to slut-shame. we are not immobile icebergs, my loves. we make mistakes. we say the things that we hear the adults around us say. we were young, once, we didnât know about so much. we were spat on and we said âthis is how it is,â we didnât know that it could be different. my father still tells me that gay people are trying to overthrow everything even though i came out years ago. it took me forever to unlearn everything i had been taught. we are not icebergs, weâre just little flowers and weâre growing. we are little flowers, and we hear that young women write songs about the people they let into their hearts. i sat back and watched them rake her across the coals as if being honest was some kind of weakness. i saw her live and watched her cry when she heard our voices. i saw her live later and heard her say, âyeah, i write songs about love, what about it?â cut your hair, let it grow out. sing along to taylor swift no matter how often people say youâre too old for it. learn to forgive yourself the mistakes being young made. write songs about love, write poems about real people. be honest, be genuine, donât worry about how many boys you kiss. none of us were perfect. be a better person today than you were in freshman year. be a better person than you were a month ago. be a better person than you were five seconds ago. we are not icebergs. we are just little flowers, my love. you might mess up: but oh goodness, youâll grow.
the fact that what we did 8 years ago is now unacceptable makes me incredibly happy: it means that weâve made progress. weâre getting somewhere. itâs changing. // r.i.d (via inkskinned)