#thingsiwrote

I am getting so sick of being told that what I want in life isn’t realistic. That my hopes and dreams are things to laugh at and brush off. I’m tired of hearing “But what is your real plan?”

My creativity is the only good thing that comes out of my tortured mind. My own head sabotages me on a daily basis, fails to let me see the light even when there is plenty. But it can create. It has visions that I can turn into films. It holds words I can turn into novels. It hides pain I can channel into acting.

I know how many artists are out there struggling. But it isn’t a choice. To me, it is the only thing that makes sense in life.

because for the longest time i felt like she forgot she had a tongue, that lit like matches,

when you step

all

over

her

boundaries.

conversation, flames, at their very peak.

i notice the red in her eyes and how they’ve existed for past a year now.

everything that she keeps isolated, thrown into these piles of sentences, that sit on our sofa alongside us. none of them registering but hot rocks regardless. and they sink into the material as her feelings protrude out of her.

burning the room we sit in, you can’t help but fall in awe of the woman she is and how i scorch at the idea of my father not seeing the same

- despite having caused all the fire inside her.

they are sometimes cosy blankets of blank. on the infrequent occasion,

they are well-needed lonesome vacations for the heart.

more than never, they are space to fill with temporary attachment and perishing lust;

but always, endlessly, alone and bleak.

22:47

in increments, she seeps in; like invitations to this pity party were sent in cryptic parts - she didn’t know when to show up and when to leave

and in the sun she tells me i’m worth buckets of what i was in the cold, and she puts herself “in my shoes” and says it could have been worse and then i tell her she never looked after me so what can she tell me about my body and it’s value (that never seems to rise) and she shouts and tells me irrational thinking will be the death of me

it doesn’t take long for me to tell her, that she is all of my insecurity bundled into something i had to breathe life into because i did not want to take the blame for my own self destruction.

for all i am is because she is and she will never stop being whilst i am too - and all my thoughts merge into those cryptic invitations.

when you feel dirty dirty dirty she gets down with you. the guilt pierces the roof of your mouth. i am so tainted, her piercings feel a fiery flavour of numb.