[x]

knock knock.there is a sound like something has died.
you make this sound, like someone has died.
when you see me, you make this sound, like someone has died,
and i have to look down at myself and check i'm not dead,
that it wasn't me who died, and you aren't making that noise
because you came here expecting a warm welcome,
and instead you got a corpse.

but no, i'm breathing, i can see my chest moving
up and down with the rhythm of it.
i'm sure if i stopped, it would burn.
but you still made that sound, and i'm not dead,
so it must be someone else. i'm sorry for your loss.
who was it that you lost? should i be making a similar noise?
should i be

you and i are just walking disastersif your skeleton is home
if your ribcage is the fireplace in the living room
of a house weathering out a storm
then you are haunted
your bones are haunted

there are ghosts howling down your chimney throat
there are ghosts rattling chains in the hall of your spine
the electricity running through your veins is flickering

if your skeleton is home
then you are a haunted house
you are dark and uninviting
even in broad daylight

the doors of your kneecaps slam shut
without the help of wind
your organ furniture goes flying
the ghost in the fireplace of your ribcage
howls into the chimney of your throat
and you are haunte

the morning star1 - he is everything i do not want
dark blue eyes and dishwater hair and a lightning strike smile
the sight of him makes me choke

2 - he is everything i do not want to need
breathless laughter and carefree posture and a lightning strike smile
i have never choked on happiness before

3 - he is everything
lightning strikes and pounding heart beats and a dormant volcano smile
there is too much of this, of happiness, of him to swallow and i choke

4 - i do not want everything, just him
and his lightning strike smiles and breathless laughter
he is too much, just enough, a dormant volcano

gonna love you 'till the seas run drywhen everything is dead
when even your bones are dust
when even the dust does not remember your names

yes, this will happen, and yes, you will die one day
you can not keep going forever
and soon, you will stop wanting to

when everything is dead,
he will still remember your names
he will still visit the places you stood
remember fondly the looks on your faces
and try to convince himself that
he is not the kind of being prone to tears

when everything is dead
when everything has crumbled into dust
yes, even your bones, and yes, even your souls
nothing lasts forever, nothing wants to last forever
except him
and whate

yours sincerely,i have written you over a thousand love letters
and that is not a declaration
that is not hyperbole
that is not anything but statement of a fact

i do not expect anything in return
i have bared myself to you
pulled my heart into tiny little pieces
rearranged them on a page to form words
and mailed the finished product to you
not even expecting you to open it
let alone understand what i am trying to tell you

i have written you over a thousand love letters
and most of those i proceeded to burn
and a couple i tucked underneath your pillow
or between your wardrobe and the wall or
into the lining of that jacket
you don'

there's nothing i wouldn't do for youthe people of the desert have a thousand words for sand
and your name was my first word
where did i come from, where am i going, what do i need
if i belong to anything, then i belong to you

your name is carved into my thigh bones
and some days, it's the only thing keeping me upright

your name was my first word, and it will probably be my last
and if the people of the desert have a thousand words for sand
then surely it should follow that i have a thousand words for you
and sure, maybe most of them are insults, but come on,
be honest here, would you listen to me if they weren't?

you never were any good at seeing what's right

catharsis.oh no not another dead body, i am so sick of digging graves, i am so sick of wearing black, i am so sick of other people crying about the loss of someone they never really noticed was alive in the first place, i am so sick of this but you aren't allowed to beg off a funeral, you aren't allowed to take leave of mourning, that's not how this works, there are standards to be upheld, expectations to follow, someone else's footsteps to tread in like they aren't the wrong size, the wrong pace, the wrong way, i am so sick of going the wrong way, of not being allowed to own up to being lost, of being lost, of not being allowed to own up, oh no, not a

don't let go.i know you the way the titanic knew icebergs
i could write a book about you
but i would miss out everything important

i do not know what you are hiding
or where you are hiding it
or why keeping it hidden is so goddamn vital
but i know what you look like naked

i know when and where and how to touch you
i know what it's like to
fall asleep and wake up next to you

i know you the way the titanic knew icebergs
nothing much beside from two certain facts
one, that you look beautiful in the sunlight
and two, that you are going to be the end of me

pause rewind playthis is not how our story ends

the sun is setting
and our fingers are entwined
and i can still feel the ghost
of your smile against our skin

but this is not how it ends
this is, if anything, how it begins
again
and again
and
again

tacenda.he's curled up at one end of the sofa, legs tucked underneath him, book in hand, glasses so low on his nose they're practically in his lap already.

she doesn't recognise the book, but it's tattered and worn, like he's already read it a thousand times. like he could probably recite whole passages from memory at his point.

his hair is a mess. there's a hole in his t-shirt, just below his right shoulder, and his jeans are split at the knee. his fingers are covered in what's probably paint, or maybe ink, and there's matching smudges on the bridge of his nose, from his apparently futile efforts to keep his glasses up. the bags under his eyes are

it's hellfire at the end of the tunnelthere is a light at the end of the tunnel
he takes a step toward it
and it takes a step away

maybe it's someone holding a torch

he takes a step
a step
a step
he stumbles
looks up
and the light is fading

he starts running
his feet feel like concrete
is he wearing concrete shoes?
is the light getting closer?
he keeps running

he feels warmer
maybe it's someone building a bonfire

he stumbles
falls
scrapes his knees
it hurts
he can't get back up

there is a light at the end of the tunnel
he's sure of it
he's sure it's something important
if only he can get there

he takes a step toward it
it takes three

a place to call my own1.
she has clever fingers that she wraps
around your waist, tight, until you bruise
she speaks in pain and screaming
and memories of pain and screaming

she tells you she owes you a debt
this is her way of confessing
that she loves you so much
and she doesn't know what to do with it

2.
he gives out light wherever he goes
there is a halo embedded in his chest and
he is a fallen angel
he has the scars to show for it

he builds you weapons
because he has no other way
of expressing affection
(you have never had better weapons)

3.
he's always two steps behind and
somehow always three steps ahead
he is both lost and found
he's

S.O.S.they tell her she needs help
they tell her she can't live like this
they tell her she's doing it badly
they tell her she's wrong, she's wrong, she's wrong

she sets her heart on fire and
sends out smoke signals but they say, no,
you're doing it wrong,
she tries and she fails and she's wrong, wrong, wrong

there is a scream building in her throat
and she swallows it
like she swallows the bile, the words, the tears
like she swallows the panic attacks
that are not allowed to escape

because panic attacks are wrong
because she is wrong, she is failing,
she is flailing, she is falling,
she needs help, so she asks for it, and no one li

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weapon of mass destructioni keep my heart loaded into the chamber of my gun
and i keep my gun strapped to my thigh
i can feel my pulse in the trigger

i keep a gun underneath my pillow, just in case
i have been called paranoid
by people too truceful to pass judgement
but i am still breathing, and that is what matters

i keep a gun underneath his pillow, just in case
i sleep there often enough, after all
i keep a gun pressed to the small of his back, just in case
i can feel my pulse in the trigger, in his dreams

i have sharpened my smile into a butterfly knife
i keep it hidden underneath my pillow
i press it against the back of his neck
and my hand curls ar

the snare rollyou win some, you lose some
you make one leap
and you miss the next
that's just how it goes

skill doesn't come into it
everything is built on chance
foundations of fate
and some day everything will crumble

because fate has never been anything
worth putting much weight
into, onto, whatever, fate is smoke
that's the point, fate is smoke
and you have to guess what the fire is

you win some, you lose some
you make the rent
and then the heating breaks
the fire is the scoreboard and fate is smoke
inhale enough and you'll start to choke

everything is built on chance
and soon, everything will start to crumble
because

maybe you're not asleepthere is a demon living in my closet, underneath my bed
in the shadows and the dark and every single space i cannot see
it sits just behind me when i have my back turned
and it makes grabs for my ankles
and it's long fingers cast shadows across the walls

and i have not had nightmares like this in years
not since i was a little kid too scared of the dark
to try and sleep with the light off, but i do not want to turn on the light
i don't want to see the demon in full technicolour glory

there is a demon living in my bed, underneath my skin
in my lungs and my kidneys and every single space inside of me
that i cannot see. it si

''bitch.'' ''jerk.''there is a language only we speak
and it sounds a little bit like choking, like screaming

there are a thousand words for all of the things
no other language will let us say
no other person will let us say
there are words for damning convention and
dying for each other and living for each other
and that feeling you get when you went to hell
for the only person worth the trouble and then hell went to you
set up camp in your rib cage like you were built
only to house it's screaming

there is a language only we speak
and no one else will learn it, no one else will try
no one else will be able to
we will whisper to each other

i had one jobit has been three years and i am still not used to the empty passenger seat
i still make comments that he is too far away to hear
i still do a double-take every time i wake up alone
it has been three years and i still feel like i'm overcompensating
like i'm doing everything twice as hard because i'm only half here
like i left some part of myself in him

it has been three years and i still catch myself needing him,
missing him, picking up the phone and getting so close to calling him
but he's out, he's gone, he's home free
and i won't be the selfish bastard who drags him back in
i have already done enough

it has been three y

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these broken pieces fit together

by ~scripturiency, Nov 24, 2012, 3:05:37 AM
Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

we have no family photo albums
no collectively treasured memories
only a road map and
several crumpled gas station receipts

i can point to any state of this map
and say 'this is where i grew up'
my childhood home is four wheels
a back seat and the dials on the radio

to take a walk down memory lane
we simply need to pick a direction and drive

look, there's the motel i first tried to pray in
i can still remember choking on the god
i couldn't bring myself to believe in
there's the diner where every single meal
they serve tastes just like ash

there's the roundabout you almost bled out on
this is that town the police chased us out of
maybe we shouldn't stop here
there's the gas station bathroom
you last tried to pray in, did you choke on god too?

we have no family photo albums
no childhood mementos
no reasons to bask in nostalgia
it tastes too much like ash

the closest we get is a road map, a paper target
and several crumpled gas station receipts
shoved down the side of the back seat

to take a walk down memory lane
we simply need to pick a direction and drive
let's go west, we can't see as much
with the sun in our eyes

and if we drive for long enough,
we might find a town that hasn't learnt out names yet
that has a name that we can speak without stuttering
and that doesn't sit uncomfortably weighted
in our throats. a town that doesn't taste like ash yet
that we haven't burned out yet

we have no family photo albums
everything burned, and now
they taste too much like ash

these broken pieces fit togetherby ~scripturiency

Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

all these broken pieces fit together to make a perfect picture of us

title from 'the lightning strike' by snow patrol (my new dean+sam anthem).

~little-supernova Nov 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Really now? I'm still stuck on "Carry On My Wayward Son." I still determine if a day is good or not by whether it plays or not.

~scripturiency Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

it's not instead of carry on my wayward son. it's, like, as well. in tandem. all of the songs, basically.

it's my ringtone. occasionally, i forget to pick up the phone because i get distracted by feels.

~little-supernova Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

All the songs at the same time. We'd be in heaps of feels then, Maisie.

D: My phone can't handle the awesome of any ringtone, really. I've tried. So you're goshdarn lucky.

~scripturiency Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

like leaf piles? can we jump in the feels!leaf piles? that sounds like fun.

poor you. bad amyx's phone! *glares*

~little-supernova Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

It does! Sounds like an awesome time to me. Let's do it!

*Amyx's phone glares back at you*

I'd be careful if I were both of you.

~scripturiency Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

*jumps*

i shall approach with caution. and maybe a pole. tell me, has the phone been known to bite?

~little-supernova Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

*throws self into the leaf-shaped feels* It's soooo warmmmm.

No, but it always dials my mother when I drop it. The way to it's heart is through musics.

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these broken pieces fit together

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