Thank you to all my followers who actually read and felt the things I wrote, to all of you who stuck around. I have now moved to a new blog, given in the link above, but I’m keeping this one here for archiving. My personal reasons are what everyone would probably file into “Overreacting Like an Ordinary Drama Queen”.
Anyways, I hope I’d see you there someday. (Preferably soon.)
Anonymous asked: You're so good in writing. I just adore your blog. <3 I'm 2 years younger than you, and I'd like to get tips for better writing? I wanna be like you when I grow up, because you inspire a lot of people, including me. :) thanks:)
I don’t know how long this has been in my inbox because to be honest, I didn’t have the desire to open this blog for such a long time but thank you. This made it worth it. I honestly don’t know how to respond, but for better writing… I firmly believe you have to write from the heart. Just let all the thoughts go before thinking of making it good, because the only way it can ever be satisfying is if it’s raw in a way. At least for me. Again, thank you for this wonderful message, dear anon!
could it have been any more mindless
i should have known with the nine hundred
ninety ninth chance that the thousand would
only be as cruel, as agonizing, as painful
but no, wise one, i won’t sway to betrayal tonight
i gave you every ounce of forgiveness despite
knowing you’re nothing but filth trying to
surpass its way into love, into something more
i gave you every little chance i could despite
knowing you’re going to tear me down slowly
so please don’t try to find any deeper word from me
than — you should have known
[i should have known]
forgiveness; twentieth of the sevens
suppose you saw me leave
suppose i forgot to close the door - not a fraction of an inch
oh, but that’s who i am
who i’d always rather be
my mother always used to reprimand the little girl i once was
for i echoed footsteps there
i departed somehow here
never securing doors properly, never leaving completely
farewell’s only credence
while we remain such fools
suppose i can never cross bridges and not dare look back
forgiveness is a disease
i always, always forgive
suppose i hurt and fell down the stairs because i forgot
oh i forgot to close doors
or maybe somehow maybe
there’s something unclear with how i never leave completely
oh, how i can’t touch locks
how i can never close doors
i can never leave anymore
but to my insatiable psyche’s content i do shatter windows —
[dare open faded locks i shatter]
I can’t keep grasping at straws for me to become part of your life anymore because I honestly don’t know how much of it I still can be. There’s wrongness at every corner threatening to jump out at me. I know nothing about you anymore, you know nothing about me, and we don’t capture a single inch to save the distance. Do you know? Everyday is another 24 hours for us to become strangers. Do you know? You’re becoming just another stranger to me.
And I’m terribly sorry if I’m yet again at the verge of giving up and I can’t be strong enough for the both of us. I’m terribly sorry that I don’t seem to want to reckon your words anymore, that their glistening eyes are much better to see you, to really see you. I’m terribly sorry that I don’t deserve even the least part of your thoughts because I don’t try, I never try, and you deserve so much better.
We can live in the achingly utopian notion that somehow we can fix this but we have to leave the falsehood that what we can do lies in our hands. It only lies in mine. The fault is all mine. And I don’t know what to do.
I’m terribly sorry that I don’t know what to do anymore.
I hate this. I hate that I’m starting to feel selfish of whatever it is I still don’t have completely. I hate that you’re making me defy all that I’ve ever been. I hate the fact that I have this heavy feeling in my arms, a strained unkempt yearning in my breaths, this never-ending resonant sense of selfishness at the back of my head. I don’t think I want to know if I’m being selfish. I don’t want to be selfish. Not when it comes to you.
It streams from every cell in my bloodstream, your extreme distance eating away at me with every inch taken closer, your shared compliance persuading me to embrace ambivalence with every word spoken gentler. Oh how I hate contingence when every syllable of my name is thrown away to your most unvital recesses of memory. I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t know if I’m being selfish, but I just don’t want to be. Not when it comes to this.
Avarice lives at the bile rising up my throat. The intense warmth of unadulterated fury itching at every centimeter of my skin reflects it and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I live in the fear of losing everything now when I still don’t have it back. I’m so sorry that I’m starting to feel selfish. The word I’ve been constantly repeating in this parchment is losing its meaning, shedding its point but I’d rather take that against the foreboding moment that I might have to ask myself, “What is the point of you?” But what is the point of you? Tell me because I’m blinded by cupidity, stupidity. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
I don’t mean to be selfish but I don’t want to lose everything yet. Not now. Not when it comes to you.
