#qoutable

[pranyaa]

"Have I lost my own essence, trying to keep my lovers close?" I caught myself wondering on an almost normal Tuesday night while looking out, trying to reach the moon with my fingers. I asked myself, "What is it about being loved that makes me tear out pieces of my soul to make space for their piece to be placed on my palms for me to add on my rag quilt of a heart?” It's like I give my pieces out to my passerby's and guests like it is candy that sometimes sticks for long enough to make me less of myself and more of themselves.

Maybe inside my heart I do anticipate for them to leave me with their mess to carry so that I have an empty heart but never an empty poetry, and each time after my hand tries to pronounce their name on my sheets, it erupts out in elegies that will never run out until the time their blue washes out off my rag quilt of a heart.

[salamisandcheese]

“ my life feels to me like the life they have. By day they're full of meaningless activity; by night they're full of a meaningless lack of it. By day I am nothing, and by night I am I.”

[hmc-night]

We fell apart,

Two broken hearts.~

~hMc~

[yankumi19]

.Find someone who...

[jaune-citr0n]

[pranyaa]

My nails have scraped on the surface of all the things I've touched, leaving dripping marks on all the things I had to let go of.

(The blood that dried up under my nails doesn't go away even with a million washes.)

I feel like I'm passing my whole life choosing which fig to take a bite out of, as each day passes with me looking under my nails, not knowing if I'm the one holding the knife or being executed with each fig that rots in front of me, being wasted of its potential. 

[pranyaa]

It's asif I'm stuck in a shrouded dream where nothing grows, and I'm stuck in a place that doesn't feel real, where there's no thin line between the end and beginning of things. It's as if everything I have touched has turned into the ashes of "shortfall" and has changed into nothingness, leaving the grasp of my fists forever.

They try to tell me what my words are worth and how I can just write my pain away,

but what they don't know is that I have become the punching bag of things I am too cowardly to write about and the things I have done halfway,

how they are nightmares I face every night, and how they churn my insides with screams of horror and choke me rather than being my Salvatore.

It's as if I have not chosen poetry, but it has chosen to become my noose, from which I will hang on my last day till I bleed out all the unwritten and unfinished poems that have been buried inside me.

[pranyaa]

Maybe the reason I love autumn after all is because I love the end; I love rueing about the dead and gone more than loving the living and the present, like how I love writing about the corpse until all the blood is drawn out of it and leaving it to burry only when the bones are left.