i’ve been a fool

Sinners Welcome: ‘Disgraceland’ by Mary Karr // IT’S A CIRCUS AND WE ALL PAID TO BE HERE, by Ashe Vernon // “a hunger like no other” - sk osborn // Angela Carter, from “Unicorn,” Unicorn: The Poetry of Angela Carter // @teenangstverse // Eat You Up, 보아 (BoA)

“breezeblocks” by alt-j

Sinners Welcome: ‘Disgraceland’ by Mary Karr // IT’S A CIRCUS AND WE ALL PAID TO BE HERE, by Ashe Vernon // “a hunger like no other” - sk osborn // Angela Carter, from “Unicorn,” Unicorn: The Poetry of Angela Carter // @teenangstverse // Eat You Up, 보아 (BoA)

hard feelings/loveless, lorde. falling for you, the 1975. sit next to me, foster the people.

the battle of the labyrinth, rick riordan

Late at night, I lay fast asleep; waiting — anticipating — expecting you to come over. And when you do, I dream of you. Sometimes, you keep me waiting and anticipating and expecting. Even then, I dream of you. Dreams are unutterable thoughts, and I never dare utter your name, unless it’s late at night.

He promises my mother he’d look out for me. It’s simple, really, he agrees to fend off greedy boys, boys who can’t take no for an answer. Because I’m weak, you see, and even my own mother can see that. Physically weak, fatigued and still recovering from years of having to make myself look, seem, appear smaller. I am still in the process of unbending myself and straightening my posture and I reprimand myself every time I lower my chin and cower when provoked.

I don’t admit I am weak, because my mother knows. She doesn’t even need to look into my eyes. She knows. So, she asks him to keep an eye on me; to protect me from greedy boys with glue for hands and alcohol corroding their veins.

He nods solemnly, as if my life is on the line and he’ll sacrifice himself for me. What a hero he must be, so brave and courageous — the pride of his dysfunctional parents whom ardently pretend to have their shit together. He nods solemnly, as if this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for his whole life; to prove he’s not cut from the same mold as his father.

At some point in life, everyone comes to the realization they’ll end up like their parents. It’s like a sudden, hot flash. Gone, as fast as it had appeared. You spend your late adolescence and early adulthood hoping, believing, oh my god, you put so much blind faith in false gods, that the path you take and the decisions you make don’t lead you down the same road as your parents. Waisting nights staring out of the window while analyzing every little aspect of your life, from the people that you love and right down to the type of car you’ll one day drive.

Your father is doe-eyed rage and your mother is grief dressed in a sundress. And you’ve inherited both of their traits, because you were too careless, the boy whose chain necklace you twisted apart when you were thirteen, blinded you to his faults with his doe eyes, and too hopeless, even false gods do not recompense those who blindly believe, even if you worshipped them falsely.

Mimicry is the highest form of flattery, which would explain why you mimic your parents. You don’t try to, only the god you stopped believing in knows how many sacrifices you’ve made in order to escape this hereditary curse, but you still do. And you’re so sad, so, so, sad, filled with grief, that you’ll eventually take a miscalculated step in the right direction and trip up and fall head first down the rabbit hole.

And when you hit the bottom — your fall will be softened by pure, white snow blanketing the ground and you will be surrounded by it. The sky is grey and bleak and sorrowful. Your parents are walking ahead, arms linked and talking in hushed voices, with you trailing not far behind.

Because you’re a child, a goddamned stupid child whom should’ve known better, you step right in the middle of your dad’s huge footprints in the snow with your little toddler’s feet, and then hop right on to your mother’s. You relive the moment where you wished to be just like your parents.

Your parents take an endless walk through the snow, and you wordlessly follow in their footsteps, sobbing.

I am trying to write a poem. I ponder its essence: should I write about her or should I start off with a question about love, a question she is the answer to? Should I write about her or about the love that has been given to me by her? Should I write about her or the grief in my bones caused by her absence? And then I ponder some more: do I want to write about her or do I just want to write about the things she’s done to me and for me?

Because I could write about what first came to mind when she clasped her hand in mine when I was thirteen and could barely comprehend the warmth of her skin and the giggle that erupted through her when I followed her suit. I could write about the sound of her laughter, the squint of her eyes and the pitch in her voice when she giddily talked to the most beautiful boy in our year. I could write about the jealousy and envy I felt toward that boy — that beautiful, beautiful boy — wanting him for myself, but also wanting to become him, for her.

I could write about so many things regarding her, which is why I want to sew each and every feeling I have ever felt for her into something that will hold my hand and never let go.

07/31/2020

We walked along the shore and you talked about conspiracy theories regarding quantum physics and questioned our existence in the universe. You told me about the time you almost drowned at eleven and about the friend you’ve lost in a car crash and about the one you’ve almost lost due to his driving while drunk. You told me about the illegal cannabis you take with friends to soothe your anxiety and how you picked up smoking at the age of twelve, because your friends were one thousand-three hundred and thirty two miles (2.145,7 km) away and you missed them so.

It hurt to look at you, because I wanted to love you, yet somehow I knew (before you told me you had a girlfriend), that you had no intention of loving me back.

Ghost, Halsey // Hard Feelings/Loveless, Lorde // Joke’s On You, Charlotte Lawrence

i'm embarrassed for being unable to match the intensity of your burning gaze,

instead i let my eyes travel south,

where i ocuppy myself with counting the freckles cutely dotting your nose,

taking in their size and measuring their color,

suppressing the urge to reach out and trace them with my fingertips,

but doing so may ruin what we have built,

and so i roll up my sleeves or look down at the ground or ease the hold of my wristwatch,

because i don't know where to put my hands when we talk

Black-out poetry of Richard Siken’s ‘A Primer For The Small Weird Loves (1)’