#writinghurricanes

[writinghurricanes]

Loving you felt like exhaling cigarette smoke, damaging but exhilarating, burning in all of my insides. Thinking I loved you felt like muscle memory, like a song you haven’t heard in a while but  to which you still manage to get the lyrics just right, like a house you can still make your way through at night in the dark. Realizing I didn’t love you felt like a guilty thought gnawing at your mind when you turn in your bed at 3am, but also like a breath of relief after the adrenaline of a moment fades away. Losing you felt easy compared to loving you. Forgetting you felt as natural as the movement of limbs, as undisturbed as being yourself when you know no one is watching. You will always be the street I skip on my way to the rest of my life, you will always be a nervous laugh I’ll give when someone mentions an embarrassing memory. But most importantly, while you think I have sonnets in my head dedicated to you, in the end you are just a line I wrote in a forgotten poem.

To All The Stray Dogs I Should Have Never Taken Home

by Lorelei

[shareaquote]

You look so beautiful lost in thought. You must have demons dancing around in your mind.

writinghurricanes

[wnq-writers]

It’s either love or hate, I used to tell you. It’s all or nothing, it’s black or white. There’s no balance, no in between, no shades of grey. I can’t give you only half of me. It’s either stay or leave, you used to tell me. I have no home, I belong to the city. The stars are my family, the moon is my friend, and the city lights wave me goodbye. There’s no what-if, no perhaps, I live this day like it’s my last. I can’t give you only half of me. Once upon a time, I used to tell you, I fell in love with a bird. And we flew together for a while, but at the end of every adventure, he would fly away and I would never know if he was ever coming back. Eventually, he cut off his wings so he wouldn’t fly to me anymore. It was toxic. It consumed me. Many times upon a time, you used to tell me, I gave someone my trust. I closed my eyes and let them eat my heart from my open palms, and it was the worst mistake I could have done. I watched my trust being crushed to pieces, and it left my hands bleeding. It was toxic. It consumed me. Our tears have been used up on others already. I can’t give you my hopes. you can’t give me your promises. I can’t give you truths, you can’t give me lies. And I wish that things were different. But you left, and I stayed. You gave your love to the stars, I gave my love to a bird. We have nothing else to give each other.

writinghurricanes, Half of My Heart Won’t Do

[writinghurricanes]

- A string in your guitar . . . #love #poems #original #prosepoem #guitar #string #dangerous #feelings #aesthetic #lorelei #mywriting #writinghurricanes #omypoetry #instapoetry https://www.instagram.com/p/By8luR2B9B9/?igshid=17ibyha3k1btu

[shareaquote]

Everyone has different personalities hidden inside of them. It’s no secret. We are all formed of smaller galaxies, that we take out and put on as coats whenever we see fit. It’s no shame. I have that. We all do. It’s no strangeness. I let some people see the summer rain in me, the warm coffee in me, the dusty old books, the smiles that feel like warm sunshine on my face. That’s the galaxy full of bright stars you just want to dive in. I let other people see the hurricane, the wolf blood, the sharp bites and whiskey smirks. That’s the galaxy not many explore, the side you don’t venture into because you want to. I perhaps have thousands of little universes like these that I bring out whenever I feel like it. I am not a chameleon, I don’t adapt to what’s asked of me. I just like to think that I’m not simple enough to be defined by one single thing. But every galaxy has its black holes. The one thing you don’t talk about, the one you keep hidden and pretend it doesn’t exist. I feel like the person I become when I get close to the black hole isn’t who I am. I see it as another person, completely separated from me. I keep her in a locked room. Or perhaps I don’t keep her, perhaps she has caged herself there, in a prison of her own making. She is sad. She is a weeping sky. She is angry. She is an unmerciful tsunami. She is mad. And she scares me. I don’t let her out. In fact, I think I have no control over her whatsoever. She comes out whenever she wants and she does what she wants once she’s out. She cries, she yells, she laughs, she scares. She scratches on the walls of my mind as a warning before she erupts. But she doesn’t stay too long. She never does. Maybe she just gets lonely in there, all by herself, and wants to make sure I haven’t forgotten her. We all have universes, stars, dangerous planets and black holes. Perhaps I am made of books full of raindrops and hunger and feathers and broken wings sparrows. Made of going but never leaving. Of had enough’s and trying too hard. Of cigarette smoke and poison and storms. Of poetry and spilled ink. Of shy mornings and midnight thunders. But do I ever think that makes me original or special or different? Not even for a second.

writinghurricanes, shades of blue