Spider Silk Home

My mum tells me old habits die hard
I laugh because sometimes the only thing my old habits have their hands around is my throat
see, I’ve got a habit of running
Away
From books, from feelings,
would-be-lovers, new sunsets
from myself, and new sunrises sometimes,
places,
people,
things.
Nouns and adjectives.
Speaking of nouns, he asks me to run away with him sometimes
Let’s run away from home he says.
home is a noun
An abstract noun
And I tell him
I left home back ages ago
wherever it is, home has skid-marks of my feet gracing its welcome mat.
Home has boarded up windows, and jammed doors,
in fact the only thing alive in home anymore is probably spiders who’ve made their own homes there,
little spider webs, fragile threads stronger than anything else.
He says let’s just run away then, love
we’ll be spiders too,
make our own home
wrap it up in bolts of spider silk
So no one can ever get through.
He makes me smile, (a lot)
and so I say I’ll think about it.
See, I’ve been running away for so long, I’ve been around the universe twice and one half times,
but maybe, it would be nice to come home
to a spider web home
of our own
at the end of the third lap.


Image credits: Mike Depetris

Hummingbird Heart.

You’ve made a stranger out of me in my own city,
made these hills into pieces of jagged earth left behind
in the aftermath of something terrible that once happened,
jagged like my teeth,
broken on all the screams I have been holding back 
since you silenced me.
cruel boy, 
you made a hummingbird out of a clay heart 
just to set it on fire.
now everyday, I wake up dripping with quicksand sadness.
every night, I dream myself into a little boat,
capsize in the middle of the ocean without a sound,
capsize into my shame,
capsize into the song of the banshee inside my head.
cruel boy,
do you remember when you promised to stay forever,
or was that another flimsy pretty thing I dreamed up?
I see in holograms, unsure of what is real these days,
and I agree, the world is ending,
but why can’t anyone else notice the knife you left in my neck?
I’ve been bleeding for days and days.
darling boy,
I know the world is ending and you won’t turn back,
but I hope you’re okay,
wherever your cruel heart takes you.


Image credits

Hope everyone’s safe. 🙂

Something Tells Me.

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

Yes, I’m Drunk, But Only On You.

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.


Image credits.

The Angel Wears a Gas Mask.

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.


Image credits.

A Mad Heart’s Plea

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?


Image credits.

Untitled

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.

On The Outskirts of Heaven

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.

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.


Untitled.

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.