Love, I’m so high on this. So high on what we had, I’m still intoxicated for days after. What have you done to me? My heart sings even when you’ve broken it. I never knew love could be so sweet, that it could fill me up like I am a paper lantern free to fly anywhere. Anywhere. You’ve freed me form shackles I don’t understand- maybe you’ve freed me from my sanity. All I know anymore is this floating and that you’re responsible for it. Every piece of my broken heart is a red balloon let go into the sky. I don’t know where my heart will end up and I don’t care. Something tells me that when you’re up this high, eventually the only direction left existing anymore is down.
Image credits: Tumblr
I don’t want sad songs anymore.
Give me happy songs, give me love songs. Give me songs that make me feel as tender as you have made me, love.
I am an open wound healing after years of infection. I am clay that you are shaping into something worth loving. I am a girl with a butterfly heart that takes flight the moment your name shows up on my phone screen.
You are the oasis in the desert, the island in the middle of the unending sea, and I am every weary traveler, every adrift sailor, lost and looking for somewhere to call home.
(Each breath I take is a love note with your name on it.)
This love is so sweet my teeth might rot; so warm, I don’t feel my fingers turning blue. This love dipped my heart into golden honey and made stars out of my eyes. You once asked me if I could feel the warmth of your love and I wanted to scream back that it is all that runs through my veins anymore. All of me has become a monument to this love- all of me. The hole in my gut is closing up after years and years of hollowness. The blades in my throat have turned into flowers that bubble out with every laugh- and there are lots of laughs.
(You have saved me from my self.)
Please don’t leave. Please stay, for ever and ever. I’ll need a lifetime to sink into all the colors in your eyes anyways.
I’m going mad, I’m going mad, love. There’s something scratching beneath my skin, and I have no cure. My grandmother used to tell me that to call a monster by its name would save me, but I have no name to call this one, nothing to tame it by. This madness has no name, but its face has always looked a little too much like yours. It’s lethal, and it’ll end me. Don’t ask me how I know, I’ve seen the angel in the corner of my eye put on a gas mask. Everyone around me is weary, as if they are tired of trying to not catch a disease they have no knowledge of, except their minds can join the dots to a danger they can’t consciously be aware of. I don’t know enough words to scream this is me, the disease is me. You can’t catch what is braided into my DNA. This madness only comes once but it kills everyday. I don’t know how long a corpse can pretend to be alive for.
My heart is a steady soliloquy of drumbeats banging out the same tune over and over: I want it to be you. In a million languages, dead and alive, in Morse code, in the language only the stars understand. If you tore my chest open you would find it written in the Braille of Longing, punched all over my ribs and heart, spiraling across every bone. You would find it etched in hieroglyphs and Arabic calligraphy across all my neuronal pathways. I am a dying girl and you are the antidote to death. If you could, would you be mine forever?
I am a twenty year old girl who has just found singing for the first time, and you are the melody that keeps clashing behind my closed teeth. Your name fights, syllable to syllable, colliding against cartilage and making a boxing ring out of my larynx. The vocal coach hums a sweet tune, but my trapped-bee-buzzing might sound a lot like screams if I opened my mouth. Singing and you are much like each other, a language I do not know, a note I cannot reach, a tune I cannot hold. My voice box is a desert- dry and empty except for the occasional cactus and tumbleweed. You are the rain, the assured violin notes of a master violinist universe that plays the music to which the sun, moon and earth all dance to. The curtains fall and rise in a melody of their own. The dance ends, and begins, and ends. I sit alone in the auditorium and wait for syzygy but throughout the settings and risings, it never happens even once. The universe plays dice, the people play dice, and not once in all the mathematical probabilities and coincidences do the stars align so that you come back to me, as you were.
Listen, listen, listen, please, you hear but I need you to listen to everything I’m screaming without opening my mouth, I need you to put aside these games and just listen to me.
Please. Listen before it’s too late.
Beneath these webs we want the same thing. You want me to want you, and I already do.
I swear, just open your eyes and listen. You’ll find me behind the whirlwind haze of glitter that surrounds you.
Here I am, on the outskirts of heaven trying to look straight at you.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much I can see.
Between my rose glasses and your glittering halo there’s not much to see.
(If only you’d feel.)
If only all these people could get out of our way, then we could be our curtains-down, kitchen-sink selves. I could breathe and you could smile like the world was ours.
Like the world wasn’t ending.
Like we didn’t make so many mistakes that slept on our shoulders while we stayed up at night.
Like we weren’t making new ones every time we looked away.
The ghosts in my city like to count my mistakes out loud, I wonder if you hear their echo all the way to where you are.
Wherever you are.
I wonder if you hear me calling you home.
Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.
Listen, it’s been too long now, okay? Too goddamn long, and you need to leave. You need to get out of my heart because I won’t be letting you stay in here anymore, not when you’ve smashed every glass window and every mirror into a million shards and ripped every door off its hinges, not when you’ve left coffee stains on the walls from still drunken rages the mornings after. I’m boarding it up now. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to renovate this house that you’ve destroyed and turn it into a home again, but for now I’ll board up the shattered windows and doors so that the splinters and the words we never yelled at each other don’t hurt anyone else. Maybe I won’t. My sixth grade teacher once told me that sometimes places never recover after they’ve been hit by hurricanes. Maybe it’s the same for people too.
Falling in love for the first time is like being an adrenaline junkie and jumping off a cliff, full of naive courage and only thinking of the wind rushing through your hair. But your second love is harder because as you lay there on the sharp rocks, the adrenaline of the flight down wearing off and your body battered, bruised and bleeding, you’ll promise yourself to never go through anything that risky, that damaging ever again, because it’s just not worth it.
The ecstasy is not worth the pain.
You’ll promise yourself to never let your fragile heart in someone else’s ruthless palms ever again after seeing it smash down onto the rocks and scatter into a million pieces, and as the water will start to rise, tides lapping up the shore, at first the cool water will feel good on your broken body until you’ll realize it’s pulling you out to sea now, and you’ll hold on to whatever rocks you can, cutting your hands and making rivulets of blood flow down your arms, to keep yourself from going into the water because you know you won’t be able to keep afloat, but the water is strong, and you are not, and now you’re in the water with no more energy. You’ll stop fighting, and go under water, but you will not drown. You’ll sink to the bottom of the sea, and sometimes swallow salty sea water that burns down your throat, but you’ll be alive, and you’ll be more alive than you’ll have ever been. Sitting on the seabed with the fishes around you, you’ll realize that maybe you thought yourself stupid for thinking you’d be one of those who found their wings on the way down from the cliff and flew off into glorious sunsets, but you’ll know you were stupid for fighting the water when you find that you can breathe in the sea easier than you did in the purest of air. This is where you were meant to be, and you know now that anything can happen.
You believe again.
This is what your second love is like.
Image taken from here.
5 stages of grief.
1. I paint the brightest shade of orange all over my lids with messy strokes and multiple coats to block away the deep purple of loss, but it comes back to haunt me in my sleep every night where there is no orange, but only the deepest, darkest purple.
2. I pour black all over my heart and it burns out the red passion I used to hold, turning it into an anger that is insatiable, an anger that does not lessen. I have broken my mother’s best china and smashed the table that held my snow globes. I have not slept for ages now. My eyes burn as I stare at the blank wall, my soul burns away thread by thread as the black swallows the purple.
3. The black fades to a pale, sickly brown, and I pray to whoever and whatever may listen to rewind time and let me hear you laugh one more time. Please, I say. Please, I scream, and I scream until my voice gives out and the neighbors look through flicking curtains to find the banshee, but all that I hear is the taunting silence of the universe.
4. My heart and fingers turn into a velvety cobalt blue, and it slowly travels until I am blue all over, from the tips of my hair to the nails of my feet, and I play with fire to drive it away, and I play with sharp objects to cut it away, but even the scabs that form are blue, and the scars left behind are blue. I don’t think it will ever go away, I’m a girl of blue ice who can never get to fire in time ever again.
5. My heart is the palest shade of copper now, and I know I’m not the first person the universe has thrown off the edge of the world. I know I will not be the last. Life will forever go on as it always has because we’re just tiny ideas occupying borrowed space in the void of the universe, and that’s exactly how it is supposed to be.
Image taken from here.