Loving You

Loving you

Makes as much sense as throwing myself to the floor

And on my knees kiss the earth and beg

For rain to come up from the soil

And bathe the clouds with endless rain

As much sense as jumping into a pool

If I don’t know how to swim

And there’s no one around to save me

As much sense as ripping out my arm

Because I have a paper cut on my pinkie

As much sense as hate

Loving you

Makes as much sense as yelling at the sun

Scream at him and demand with strong voice

For him to turn colder, he is burning my skin

At 12 noon I demand for the moon to rise

As much sense as jumping from a plane

Without a parachute, when I love life

And I am clearly aware that I can’t fly

As much sense as praying for my skin to change

I can’t just throw my genes away

As much sense as me

Loving you

Makes absolutely no sense

Loving you and missing you

Is like willingly cutting my veins

When I don’t even want to die

I’m a small piece from a hundred-piece puzzle

You are complex, from a thousand-piece one

I am a winter day, cloudy with gloom

You are a summer day, sun bright, water blue

I’m the knife and the wound

You are the Band-Aid and kiss

You belong everywhere but next to me

Yet, I will keep loving you with all my heart

Even if you never know 

Because yes, it hurts me and kills me and breaks me

But it’s the only thing I know how to do

 

Can you give it back?

It’s just like a body

without a brain

without lungs

without blood

without anything that holds the adjective

‘vital’

Dear, what’s the point?

If the pain in my chest

will only spread like wild fire

and the blood in my veins

will only make it grow

the tears in my eyes

will be like calcium to my bones

You leaving,

was more than having my limbs ripped out

by a cold blooded murderer

and yes, it hasn't happened

but I imagine is about the same

Maybe if you haven’t taken anything

I could be whole

but my heart

was sewn to your sleeve

how could have you returned it

if you didn't know it was there

if you still don’t know it’s there

Can you realize it’s there?

Can you give it back?

my chest feels empty without it

my brain has a hard time

trusting anyone

this walls, they protect me,

but they keep me trapped

Dear, can you return it?

put the tiny pieces inside a box

tie it safely with a red bow

give it to me as a present

on the day that I was born 

Journal, Twenty Seventh of Month Three

Vanishing muse

I want to write so badly, and I get the motivation for a second, but then it just slips. My muse is slipping through the spaces between my fingers, like water in my cupped hands. And I can’t hold it. I can’t freeze it and hold it in my palm and let it freeze my skin. I can’t stop it from melting; I can’t stop it from leaking. My muse is like the memory of someone who died, or someone who’s away, someone you don’t see every day. It’s slowly vanishing from my brain and I try to hold on onto it but I can’t, not even if I look at pictures or videos the person behind the screen is not the same as the person who once stood in front of me, who I once hugged.

My mom says ‘stop starting new stories and you’ll see how you finish the other ones’ but how can I explain that it doesn’t work like that. How can I make her understand so she’ll stop pressuring me if I can’t even explain it to myself? My head is full of worlds, full of developing characters and faces I cannot fathom the factions of, yet I know their hearts and their souls and fears and dreams. They keep popping out of nowhere and grow and I have to write them down because sometimes it becomes too much, sometimes I need to detach myself from that character from one story who’s feeling shitty and I need to remember that it’s not me right now, that maybe it was me when I wrote it but it’s not me right now. The only way of draining my head and letting things go is by writing them and that’s why I have so many unfinished stories because I feel someway and I write about it but then it goes away and I can’t write anymore, or the problem is never resolved so it feels wrong to finish writing about it. I don’t know.

Sometimes I just lose the story, I think about it for too long or take a long break in between two chapters and I lose the soul of the story, and when I try to write it again and giving it an end it feels wrong and incomplete. I need to feel what I’ writing, if I don’t I can’t do it, I can’t write something I don’t believe in or something I don’t feel. Sometimes it’s something that I want, sometimes it’s something I hate, but it needs to be linked to my feeling because if its not then why the hell would I take my time to write about it. A piece of paper is the only place where I can truly be me, where I can say what I want without holding back. The pen is the only one I trust with my secrets, the only one I let to peek into my chest and see what hides in there, why would I write something that means nothing to me. All I write, it’s linked to me, because it comes from me.

My muse loves to play hide and seek. She comes and goes and comes and goes and it’s worse than a gypsy honestly, she has no home. Sometimes she is a random smile coming from a random person or a certain look or a smell or the ghost of an emotion or an emotion on someone else’s face. I never know where she is coming from or how she got here. I never know when she will leave, and when she does I never know when she will come back. She likes to play and she likes to leave before things are over and really, I can’t blame her. She is just like the person she likes to posses. 

Hello!

Hi :) I haven't been using this blog in the longest time (all my time wasted on tumblr lol) but I want to start using it again! I redesigned the entire blog and I have so many things I've written lately that I want to put up. I hope you like it! <3