#herlevings

this air is filled with a tragic love story, this lie we believe called nostalgia. it tastes like vanilla, and peppermint gum. it smells like summer, and cigarette smoke. it’s hidden in back staircases and dusty window panes and tile floors. we find it in cluttered old rooms filled with sewing machines and tangled ribbons and faded fabric. we can see it in fleeting glances and cold exchanges and sweaty palms wiped on pant legs. this air we breathe in like fog; slow and dark and tainted with harsh words and false promises and so much still to wait for it hurts. this air which once was bittersweet has lost but all its flavor. now it does not taste but of ash. this nostalgia, like vanilla, just like summer.

i am cold and indifferent, i am a home to heavy eyelids and cracked knuckles and chapped lips.

my chest hurts. i’ve got a language pacing back and forth behind my eyes, and too much to say. i have countless conversations with my hands “you are too shaky” “your work is not good enough” “stop biting your nails”. i am my own defeat and my greatest alliance. i am the pink flowers blooming on saturday morning, and i am the thunder shaking window panes on thursday night. i am cold and indifferent, i am a home to heavy eyelids and cracked knuckles and chapped lips. i am the notebook you scribbled in because blank pages scared you, the rims of paper charred from age old attempts to forget and you’ll light her on fire until it hurts, until you’re sure she’ll remember you but i am the moon. whipping tides in and out, i am omni. your worst and your greatest, your first and your last. i saw cruelty and kindness and fear dashed with pride and your nightmares and daydreams, scraped knees on the concrete. i am of all things. palm trees. pouring rain. night time. day. i am vast, but i am small. malfunctioning lungs, mixed chemicals in a brain that scolds, “you are not smart enough”.  i am flesh and bone, carved from dust, i am my own moon.

SONGS  FOR  GAVEN

tell me my sadness isn't weakness, this bitter thing i carry around like an old friend i’m too polite to get rid of. promise me light at the end of this alleyway, whisper it onto my fingertips like a mantra until i believe you, shout it at me until my bones break from impact, cure me with intangible things and rumors of faith i can’t yet touch. promise me i’m not a broken thing, just fragile and covered in dust.

controlthespark is ControlthesparkCo