a few more words

poetry and prose

[stpdwriter]

All we ever drown in are sorrows,

Sinking in the seas of almosts.

to drink in empty bottles //

[stpdwriter]

a name carved

into my throat

roses grow

on my tongue

and simply

cannot die.

<br>

in september

it gets colder

this is how

simple it gets.

<br>

scraping off

scraps and crumbs

waiting for

the moment

when one

decides to

cut the cord

and stops

picking up

the phone.

[stpdwriter]

I miss him, Although I'd never say  The breaths of mine Now they are simply sighs, Yet still his every passing day.

A Quiet Confession

[stpdwriter]

“The only cage I've ever felt safe in was the one in your chest.”

truly in your heart, forever //

[stpdwriter]

i'm going to fold the white bedsheets and leave them in the cupboard. if ever they start floating, their shape more human than space, grab the salt from the counter. please do not let these ghosts haunt you. do not befriend them even if they tell you they knew me, that i was good and kind and lovely. or if they try to pretend to be me. never believe them. even out of my own skin, i would never want to call me by my own name; it rings and echoes like a doorbell resounding in a mansion, hollow like the cavity in my rotten chest. you can hear someone who wanted to get inside now running away. it's not me anymore. i was gone the moment i wrote this. i was gone the moment i swallowed.

[stpdwriter]

46 chromosomes, puzzle pieces that make me and yet i still feel incomplete. How do i stop myself from becoming the moon, stepped scorched by the Sun, silent hurting in the shadows. How do i stop myself from becoming Mars wars waged on my own skin toxic storms metal on tongue. When we've destroyed one thing, we move on to another the Earth, what it gave we would take gobbling up even licking off the crumbs left on our fingertips of every proof of love just to prove we still can.

[stpdwriter]

my spine is an insect crawling on my back. how do i gracefully say let me be fragile enough to break, to get crushed under someone's soles that might as well be my own and never get up again? how do i say that this is it. the moment i start looking for metaphors to hide the bloody bruised lips and cracked knuckles means the bones have piled up under the bed and already need to be buried? how do i say this gracefully, really? how do i stop?

[heldinhishands]

It is my birthday month!!! September 16th I will be 21. Which means I will do a giveaway of my books!!! 

3 winners will have a paperback copy of my poetry books, The Morning After Relapse and Stubborn Lover. 

If you’re one of the 3 winners, I’ll message you asking whether you want both or just one, and which one you want. 

Rules to get your name in the hat !!! - 

1 Like = 1 name.  

1 Reblog = 1 name. You can reblog more than once. 

Take a picture of my book if you already have a copy/copies and submit it to me = 1 name for each book.  

*If I realize I can afford more than 3 winners, I will just draw again for a 4th winner, or a 5th, etc.* 

(Photo and cover credit - Karen Da Costa) 

[stpdwriter]

the story goes: they met. they talked. it was magic. something brewing over a quiet fire. a spell slowly but surely stirring itself up into a storm. mixed with some herbs, hair and tears. drink to this magic.

it goes: it was magic. a top hat. bunny in a box. the magician’s assistant is the true magician. she’s disappearing, tearing herself into two, and then abracadabra! she’s back.

it goes: it was magic. static, electric, magnetic. stars, honeysuckle, potions. the kiss. the hands. the words. completely tangible. feel it in your stomach, your skin. it’s real. magic is real. the blindfold is pulled off your eyes. the magician is smiling at you. everyone applauds at the illusion. the trap door swallows you whole.

[stpdwriter]

We've always been meant to be. But meant to be what?

friends, strangers or lovers

[stpdwriter]

and here it goes. loving you was like dipping myself in quicksand. like kissing the prince then turning into a frog. a fairytale in reverse. nostalgia drenched in roses. it’s missing you but only before. like running my fingers through your hair. or holding your hand. or telling you how the world scares me at 2 a.m. it’s the crossroads. it’s sinking in love instead of flying. there are no wings but there are hands. loving you is staying friends but suddenly jumping over the fence of it. you fall. the ending is an open one.

[stpdwriter]

and everyday, i think of you and i pretend it's normal to have to think of anyone this m u c h

[stpdwriter]

to me, holding her reminds me of airplanes taking off in my chest, ripping out of my ribcage, flying by her side. this is when i will promise her i will come back. the clouds are only pretty if she’s in the picture framed with them, hanging on the apartment wall so i close the window and sleep until i land. i like to think of oceans, to wonder how giants wouldn’t need to feel scared of how wide it is and yet, they’re still simply big fish in a pond.

we meet halfway through the world through conversations and half read messages until we both fall asleep. there’s not always a right away reply. it’s better to assume they’re busy. but busy with what?

there’s always crying. someone will always get swallowed at night seeking answers to questions buried in the box of sand and dirt, easy to pick at and ready for everything to slip right out of our fingertips. my calls get frequent. she won’t answer.

there’s always the budging. prodding. there’s needles and throats and hands and mouths. it takes a while to spill. but we’ve got all night this time.

i come home and the airplanes come back in my chest, the hollow space is filled when she’s in my arms. there’s another picture with the clouds. this time, we’re both in it.

[stpdwriter]

you know when they greet you good morning and then suddenly the world is vibrant? ughhh

[stpdwriter]

*googles "how to know if you have insomnia" at 2 a.m.*

[stpdwriter]

hi:

i just thought of you today. it’s riding a wave of feelings above an ocean of unexplained reasons. there are parts i want to kiss out of you, pretending even without the bite, they’ll disappear and melt away. there’s this part of me that still wants to believe it when you said we were soul mates even though it’s been a year since you said that.

do you still like to go on road trips? watch the stars? feel the morning chill? think of me?

hey, i don’t know the answer yet. or it’s not really making itself known. hiding behind a door, a closet, a smile. you don’t want me falling in love with someone else. and i still don’t know what i want.

i don’t even know why i’m writing this. expecting that even if i can’t give a reply, you will.

[stpdwriter]

i feel like a car crash. skidding tires, broken glass. i’m always driving away from the scene of the crime where i murder myself by running her over. her blood leaves tracks on the road. everyone blames me. how could i break her? she deserved much better.

i feel like everytime i try to move forward, she’s always haunting me. telling me about how fast i was going. that i was throwing my life away trying to get to a destination i do not know the name of. there’s happiness in the journey. but i guess i decided to take a different route that just keeps going on circles.

i am a paradox. hating hurting myself but loving when i break. did you know that when your voice cracks, there’s a chance for it to change? i wonder if it can be applied to me.

the car crash is the paradox. i die but i live. i bleed then wash the blood off my teeth. wash. rinse. repeat. grab the car keys. start driving.