#dandelionsinthepavement

[dandelionsinthepavement]

losing a friend is knowing a stranger's face, a stranger's favourite colour, and a stranger's deepest secrets. But they will not smile at the sight of you. You brush shoulders with someone who has seen you broken and breaking. You brush shoulders with a stranger and know they don't miss you too.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

I wonder if there is a world out there where I am gentle. Where flowers like daisies grow from each step I taken— Where I have filed down my claws and I do not leave a mark on everything I love.

I wonder if I tried just a bit harder if my voice would be softer, kinder— I wonder if there is a time where I can be soft, and simple.

I wonder if there is a way I could get rid of this family heirloom, this anger, This anger that lingers— Under my nails, in my chest— This painful reminder of my harshness, The abrupt unkindliness of my person.

This anger has been passed down, Father to son, Mother to daughter— A gift that leaves your shoulders heavy and your chest heaving.

There is a reason so many in my family have taken to being loud— I worry that we are not built for being soft. I wonder if there is a day where I will be described as something safe.

When you are born among flames, The ash in your lungs is second nature— There is a reason my parents took up smoking.

There is this burning in my blood— I have my father's eyes ; I have his violence too. I have my mother's hair ; And her loud existence.

I am born into this anger. I am born with this burden. I hope that someday, I will mold myself into something loveable— I think I would enjoy being delicate.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

I see myself as something dirty, unforgiven and unsure. You speak of purity and angel wings, I don't think you notice the ones ripped from my back. I dont think you seemed to notice the tears in my skin, Where clawed fingers ripped their way through.

I don't think you heard the violence in my voice as I spoke. I do not think you know much about purity. You do not know how much pain it has taken to become this fragile. You do not know what it takes to be forgiven.

You have cried a thousand times yet you refuse to shed a tear for me. My scars are no better than yours and yours no greater than mine. You speak of kindess, you talk of perfection.

The only perfection you seek is one that does not exist. Open your eyes, the ground is full of dirt. Lay down. Stand up. Feel it. The world is not perfect and neither are you. Pray to a god who has made mistakes. Say the prayers backwards.

Befriend the bugs and the rot. Befriend the forgotten and lonely. Become untouched and unloved. Then; you can speak of kindness. Then, you can speak of soft love and gentle grace.

You have to be bitter to understand that sweetness has a different taste. You have to practice until your fingers bleed before you understand the suffering of the greats. Learn your place, before you tell me about mine.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

i smile with shaking hands and pretend they are shaking in excitement. i supress the urge to flinch as you take them in yours, and promise never to leave me. i feel owned. is this love? it does not feel loving.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

for him.

i press my body up against yours, intertwined and entangled, no end in sight I am yours, my dear and I promise to wait. tonight I will stay by your side, hands shaking, clumsily tracing your features, speaking in hushed near silent words, heard by your ears alone. our lips gently touching as you wish me goodnight, i love you,  and that is all that matters. i feel your touch and I feel your love, we are one another, we are loved and loving, we could be love. i will be yours for as long as you want. I will carve myself into some semblence of a man for you.

[dandelionsinthepavement]

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(A/N : most of this is ass. It's not good. This blog started when i was fourteen and very very suicidal. It's clumsy and not at all polished. Its got corny and overused metaphors. most of it doesnt even qualify as poetry or creative in any way. please dont be mean.)

[dandelionsinthepavement]

"You are not used to the absence of pain, pain is your mother, your father and your home. Pain is your god and your name. pain is your blanket you wear to sleep— Pain is what you know and trust, Because if you are not hurting, do you exist?"