Staying drunk on writing

Izabela / Writer / Toronto

[wordlie]

This year has been like stepping on a landmine and surviving despite having lost parts of the person I used to be. I have moved forward by falling behind, by limping while others ran. I saw destruction but I also saw beauty when I crawled out from beneath the rubble to see that the sun was still beating down and the birds were still humming a tune in the distance. There comes a time when you realize that the world ticks like a bomb and most people try to run away while counting down the seconds. Yet, there is more bravery in taking a moment to stand still and think about what you have survived, not what you have left.

Be good 2017 // I.D

[wordlie]

After one last sip, she threw the empty bottle of vodka and watched it shatter into pieces on the kitchen floor. Her hands shook and her skin formed goose bumps as he slammed the door and walked down the driveway. He said that he needed someone stable but she was a summer storm that puts on a beautiful sight until it starts to pour, knocking down the weak trees that stand in its path. As the dizziness started to hit, she rested her head on the counter and knew that soon the rain would start. The open window let in a fierce wind that cooled her body. Except this time when the storm passed, there would be no one to watch the sun come up again. There is little beauty in being stable since after darkness comes an even greater light.

Stability // I.D

[wordlie]

Flowers are starting to sprout from my scars because you're no longer here picking them from my skin as you tell me that barren bodies are most beautiful.

My body’s a garden // I.D

[wordlie]

Wilted roses stand on my dinner table, left there by my past lover, untouched in an attempt to remind myself of a once existent love. The petals fall below the vase like an hourglass dripping sand until it finally runs out. I run my fingers over the thorns with enough pressure that blood trickles down my hands. Love is such a delicate thing but I have always felt it too deeply, leaving me hanging on to every piece leftover. I will feel it to the very end, until my body is as winkled as the fallen petals. Either love passionately or do not love at all. I have never known an in-between.

Wilted roses // I.D

[wordlie]

It is human to feel too much  To feel love with every laugh and every stutter To feel sadness like a broken rib that a surgeon can't fix To feel anger in the unsteady breathing that makes you choke What is not human is to feel nothing at all Because numbness is not strength Numbness is when you know you are losing the fight

The mystery of emotions // I.D

[wordlie]

I have raised these dreams that keep growing. They were seeds I planted as a five year old with dirt covered hands. I got caught in a religious ritual, watering them everyday before sunset. My young hands felt the softness of the leaves and sometimes ripped them off to tape onto my bedroom wall. I no longer tend to my dreams, Now they tangle up on the fence like a ladder reaching to the sky. Their leaves turn towards to sunlight only to burn, for I have neglected to water them. Yet, they don't die no matter how much I try to kill them. They are a reminder of my youth full of hope and innocence.  Burned, thirsty, knotted; they grow.

Dreams // I.D

[wordlie]

The ocean flowed around me but I couldn't move. My feet were stuck in the sand and the water rose around me, using my body as a ladder. Every part of my body was numb and my bones shook. I let the water reach my face until I started to breath it in. It sent a freshness down my rusted cavities. I become one with the ocean and drifted away, nothing more than a piece of driftwood in an infinite universe.

I.D // Maybe I wasn’t stuck and I just didn’t want to move

[wordlie]

There are times when I am buried deep below the ground unable to move my limbs. But there are also days when I float between the stars and bounce off planets because the earth cannot contain my body.

Torn between two worlds // I.D

[wordlie]

The most painful thing you can do to an artist is not let them make art. Taking away their pencil or paintbrush is taking away the only thing that keeps them sane. Stripping them of what they create is the same as ripping off their skin. Artists need a way to bleed so that they don’t cut their own bodies. Please do not murder the only part of them that they cherish so dearly.

I.D

[wordlie]

When I hit rock bottom, there was no crash or public spectacle. It was my shaking body, trembling in bed at the crack of dawn. It was hearing my heartbeat bouncing off the walls of a room that were slowly closing in on me. It was not someone else that pushed me off the cliff. I did it to myself. I stepped over the edge and fell. Now, I’m broken in a way that nobody knows how to mend.

I.D

[wordlie]

Only the loneliest of souls stay up through the night. They see themselves in the way the stars are scattered, many hidden behind the blinding light of the moon and the clouds passing by. The dark holds their shivering bodies and cradles them to sleep at the break of dawn.

 Insomnia

~I.D

[wordlie]

“I just want to get away. I can’t stay here anymore,” she said, staring up at the night sky, her breath rising up like a cloud.

“We dream of being the rebels, the small town runaways, the city wanderers but all of these dreams are formed by our desire to run away from ourselves. I’ve tried it all. You can’t get away from yourself. Wherever you go, you take your old self with you,” he said.

They lay there, the highway humming in the distance and the lights breaking through the trees. The silence swallowed their loneliness whole and the stars became their companions.

-Excerpt from a novel I’m too scared to write