I find myself always needing someone to take care of me. I’ve never asked anyone to Some try— Fail— And then I fall apart. But it’s true. I’m not okay anymore. I’m not okay alone. So I’m clinging I’m clinging. But I would much rather cling to death. I’d rather die than feel. I was clinging to him, (I’m clinging to anyone who comes along) I hope he doesn’t mind. I don’t need him to...
I bite because I want someone to Bite back.
You raped me and I hate you. You raped me and I hate you. You raped me and I hate you. I trusted you and I hate you.
I want to burn away my sadness.
I feel free.
I was never any good at writing—especially not fiction. The idea never quite jarred with me: the creation of something from nothing. In my head, characters were like miniature people, at times paired down to their essentials; at times, larger than real fresh and blood humans. Who am I to play God? Especially when my creations never end up as anything more than unformed. Like half a being, left to...
I wish that instead of walking in another’s shoes I could walk in their mind know the quiet feel the freedom.
When light touches my skin, it almost feels like a person—caressing. Touch touch touch. Me. Me. Me.
I just want a pretty girl to keep me warm.
But I could not move mountains, I could not make myself whole Enough to be enough for you.
I’m attracted to you from my toes to my eyelashes and everything in between.
A certain shade of blue will always remind me of you.
I don’t want to write the book of things I wish I’d said. I need to say them. Now. Holding feelings inside of you creates mountains of discontent—built with words of the sentences you never uttered. Speak. Now.
I’ve always wanted to fly. I still might. One day.
You hold onto people because it’s easy. It’s familiar.
I was a woman in a dancer’s body.
We were constantly looking for metaphors where there were none. Maybe that’s the curse of this generation; we’re taught to analyze things to their death—indulging only in their intrinsic value. Even our relationships. Especially our relationships. “Nothing less than a fairy tale is worth pursuing.”
Always always dies.
I want to write like other people breathe—effortlessly. I want words to spill from my fingertips like rain. I want to burn when I don’t write. I want to feel a chill up my spine when the words are exactly right. I was born with words, and I want to be buried in words.
I want to scrub my mind of thoughts not yet born. I want to erase her from my corner of existence. I want to live inside myself. I want darkness.
I want you. I really do. I want to curl into the safety and familiarity of your arms; I want to kiss your lips and trace your name with your freckles; I want to breathe deeply the scent of yourself and take all of You into Me. And yet. I don’t need you. I will live. I will get on without your touch or your voice whispering into my skin. I will live.
Sometimes I need to write. It feels like a physical pressure on my fingertips—pulsing through my veins and pouring out my skin. I try to hold it inside until I reach a safe spot. Solitude, pen to paper, hands to keys, words to page.
I am Winter, but I would like to live in Spring. If Spring were a girl, I’d ask her name.
I would like to go back to a time When I could say, “I’ve never been in love”.
What you are getting here Is what no one has ever seen. My thoughts— Ringing out as clear as bells Before any revision Or over thinking.