Broken Hearts - Tumblr Posts

My thoughts scatter and blow Like leaves in the wind I struggle to hold on to them long enough To write them down  Before another comes my way Before they dance away Out of reach It is frustrating because I have so much to say But sometimes I let the thoughts come And I admire their shape Their colour Their uniqueness And let them go Because some leaves are not meant to be held And some thoughts are not meant to be kept And so I let them go And I am at peace

The Intangible Things 

Sick of Poetry

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                  Sick of writing in metaphors                                                                                    and beautiful words                                                                                                  in odd formed lines                                                                                                that wind up trailing into plain thoughts                                                                    or lose the thought somewhere along the way to the end of the sentence

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                        I crave the backing of a storyboard                                                                         Crave the adrenaline that comes when mounting a good arc                            The whiplash that comes with a plot twist                                                                I crave the company of characters                                                                    Who feel things so I don’t have to                                                                            I crave the escape to a world that is not my own but is

I am sick of writing poetry                                                                                        But nothing seems to care                                                                                      Nothing seems to want to stick around                                                                  Nothing seems to want to be the one tasked with comforting me                        To give themselves up to my pencil and will                                                       Not these thoughts                                                                                                Or these words                                                                                                        Or these storylines                                                                                                Not the witty dialogue                                                                                              Or the interesting settings                                                                                        Or the complex characters 

They like to disappear                                                                                              As though they are ashamed                                                                                That they were ever mine                                                                                        I too am ashamed                                                                                                    But I am sick of writing poetry 

You write Of a girl who has breathed life into you who sings your demons to sleep   who lights your inspiration who is your demise                                                                                                                                                                                                                          You talk of a girl Who you wish to know But is the unknowable Who is sugar and spice Who is fire and ice                                                                                                                                                                                                                            You dream of a girl Who is the sweetest sin Who is the soundest salvation  Who is everything Who is nothing                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  You outline a girl Who may be one Who may be many Who may be real Who may be anything but                                                                                                                                                                                                         I read Of this girl And sometimes I allow myself to think It may be me You write of

Tell me, do you write of me?

* @writerscreed *

Every night I wrote about him 

And that was the difference 

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

One night I wrote about her.

I have broken promises. But do not think, They did not hurt me, As much as they hurt you.

I never thought I would break a heart

The days have begun to blur together again. Morning to Night. Passes in the blink of an eye. And yet drags on for an eternity.  But for a few moments, when we speak, time seems to take pity. And I exist for a millisecond. For this I am grateful.

The Intangible Things 

We act as though we know each other. We do not. We act as though we need each other. We do not. We act as though we love each other. We do not. But perhaps I like your company. And perhaps I crave existence.

Everything I Never Told You

A Good Writer vs. A Writer

As a writer, I often find myself in the middle of odd places at odd times. In odd situations. At least I assume they are odd. What makes them so is simply my awareness of them. Or perhaps lack thereof. The sentences in my head, pull me out of reality and daydreams into another layer of both. I watch them helplessly even as I create them.

There is a scene I found myself itching to write a while ago. It would not leave me alone until it encased me. Consumed every thought. Every step. Until I had encountered every detail it needed me to, and so it goes:

I am standing in a room. But I am not. For the sky is black and speckled with stars and the breeze is blowing and the stone floor is hard. I am wearing a dress, but no shoes. And I feel the warmth, of blood, running up to my elbows, splattering my face, pooling around my bare feet. It is soaking into my floor-length gown. There is enough for it not to be sticky. I have no weapon. See no bodies. But I know they are there. I do not know if the blood is there's or mine. I do not know what happened. Do not know what I feel. Or why I am standing there motionless. All I know is that the blood is warm, but my shoulders are cold. That my hair is down and my heart is steady. 

I do not know what happened. But I do not ask questions. Maybe because I do not want to know. And perhaps that is the difference between a writer and a good writer. Good writers ask why. They explore what happened before, what will happen after. They will work it out. Figure it out. They know or at least want to. But I, I don’t. 

I do not want to know why am I standing there is a flowing dress, covered in blood. Do not want to know why I came here, or if I will leave these bodies and go home to another, or if someone will come to get me. Do not want to know who these bodies belong to. I refuse to ask. I take what it gives me. And do not pry for more. I do not care about the beginning or the end. About where I came from or where I will go. Mostly because I do not want to know. I do not care. All I care about is that this is the one place I do not feel compelled to search for the answers that too often I cannot find or leave me broken. 

So I am just a writer. Who finds herself in the middle of odd places, at odd times, in odd situations, soaked in blood and refusing to ask why. 

There are some things even poetry hesitates to remember.

The Intangible things 

Our love was Untied shoelaces Stifled laughter in tear stained pillow cases Our love was Summer rendezvous Butterfly swarm in the hurricane Our love was Burning flame explosion With all the shrapnel Our love was Neck kisses Whispered words Our love was Teeth and Hearts Bared Our love was No secrets when the sun went down  And strange silence when it was up  Our love was Scorching Sudden

The Broken Boy Who Never Intended to Stay - Excerpt from the poem The Ways in Which I Have Been Loved

Our love was Tightening a corset while gripping a bedpost Our love was Thrown Kitchen Chairs  Shattered Bathroom Mirror Our love was  Shut eyes Dark hickeys  Our love was Overflowing glass of wine, sticky hands, sticky table Heavy Hotel Curtains Our love was Deep wound, just clotting Counting seconds on a broken clock  Our love was  Forget your day; Forget my name Lips sealed; Mind shut Our love was Wolf Eyes; Dark Night Makeup sex; No fight Our love was No goodbye Just gone

I forget his name, I don’t think I ever knew it Excerpt from the poem The Ways in Which I Have Been Loved

Our love was Baby blue leather jacket  And sunflowers Our love was Second grade "What do you want to be when you grow up" And the "What do you like on your pizza" question Our love was  Lullabies on the piano Heart in timezone tatters Our love was More I miss you Than I love you Our love was Cute animals GIF's  And orange juice Our love was Not knowing of the broken or the healing But just knowing you are helping  Our love was Me trying to be happy Just for you Because you made me want to

The Belgium Boy, The Boyfriend Boy Excerpt from the poem The Ways In Which I have Been Loved

Sickly Sweet

Sweet nothings roll off your tongue and reach for me

They are sticky like honey. 

Like blood. Like glue.  

I can't seem to move. 

Or wash them off of me.

It was saccharine at first. 

Now it is just trapping. 

I find it harder and harder to breathe. 

You cover me in mouse trap glue

And shove poems of unrequited love down my throat.

I still try and be nice. 

Because honey is still honey 

You are still you

But my mother always warned me, to steer clear of boys 

And too many sugary treats.

I turn my head when your breath comes to close

You think the goosebumps are of pleasure but they are a break out rash of fear.

I do not write unrequited love poems anymore

I write of how I love. 

I write of everything they are 

And I let out the words like breath to the wind

I leave them like whispy things. 

Not thick. Or oozing. Or dripping in saturated devotion

Because I still gag on the word beautiful. 

Because know all too well of how suffocating sweet things can be.

To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it. I have not forgotten, you or your smile, as you went skipping back to your friends, and I held my breath. To the eighth grade girl who told me I looked pretty on the day I most needed it, you are beautiful, and I hope someday when you need it the most, someone is there to tell you.

The Intangible Things 

There is comfort and terror in knowing that no one will ever know me like I know myself.

The Intangible Things

And I know it is hard to hear. But it is the truth we both see and choose to look away from. The truth is that we were artists looking for a new muse. Searching for inspiration. For someone to knock down the brick wall of writer’s block. We were two people looking to feel alive again, looking for someone to light the ashes of our mind on fire. 

How long did it last? A day? A week? A month? Of sweet nothings and soft caressing terms of endearment. Of pages of poems and colour covered canvases. Of seeing the world in a new light. Manufactured arguments for the sake of making up and making out. Now? I look for any excuse not to write of you. Look away from your messages. Your glances. The tenderness in your voice. 

Maybe it is the guilt that keeps us here. For we both have sinned. Maybe it is the grief. In lost time. In knowing someone and yet knowing nothing of them and even less of yourself. Perhaps it is selfishness. On your part, in wanting me for the distraction I bring that you masquerade as healing. Perhaps it is selfishness. On my part, to think that someone may want a small part of me and I masquerade that as love. Perhaps it is arrogance. In thinking that our love is helping. 

But I am tired. Of living my life on autopilot. I am tired. Of acting like we have made this choice. I am tired. Of stealing and wasting time. I am tired of living my life on autopilot.  For it is barely living at all. And perhaps this is the issue with two artists being in love. The issue with two humans being in love. But rejoice, for heartbreak will free you and fill you with inspiration a new. 

love is only love at first, after that it becomes a convenience

Sometimes your heart is the only thing worth listening to.

Heartless Marissa Meyer

“Shall I stab you it the heart?”

She is sitting on my lap in the middle of the empty marble ballroom floor. I take in lungfuls of her, but every breath that comes in must come out. I pray her scent is tattooed on me, on my bare skin.

And I know I will have to wash her blood off and along with it will go her smell and I know that is the point.

“No...it is not a sure thing. I may just bleed,”

She turns her head, just slightly, as though to get more comfortable.

“You should probably slit my throat,” I stiffen, but she picks up a palm and presses a kiss to it and I try to breathe. I really do try. I promise.

“Andrea…” she presses our arms back down across her waist.

“I love you Lucy,”

My grip on the knife is sweaty. She places a firm moist hand over it and places it above or other two arms wrapped around her waist. Poising to strike.

“I want you to remember. He is trying to break you,”

“I love you,” I shake my head, close my eyes, my voice cracks. 

“Andrea, he is trying to break you,”

“He cannot break what is already broken,”

“Listen to me,” and so I do. Shut out that haunting music. Shut out the burning of Emanuelle's gaze. Shut out the pounding of my heart. Shut out the voice that is screaming for me to cover her with my body and let them try to pry her out of my bloody broken hands. Dare them to take her from my lifeless body. Shut out the pleas from my heart to do it now. To do it know and be over with it.

“Remind him that though you are delicate and beautiful like porcelain and may be shattered on this ballroom floor, that when he comes to collect the fractured shards, when he tries to step all over you, remind him you will cut the soles of his feet and leave his fingers scared.”

She tightens her grip on my hand with the blade. I am not sure if she is trying to assure me or is afraid I will plunge into my own heart.  

“Andrea, do you remember once...I asked you if you remember what your homeland was like? I asked you if you remembered Spain. I asked you if you had forgotten...do you remember?”

I shake my head against her neck. She is such a light thing in my lap. So light. So free. A bird. A bird in a cage. Caged in life. Caged in this room.

“You told me,” a shuddering breath, “you told me that those memories were tucked in the cramped dusty corners of your mind, sealed tight, but always there. Do you remember? You told me you kept your happiness there...to hide it from him. You told me--you told me some things were intangible. That they could not be taken. Seen and felt...but never grasped. Never taken. Your will is intangible Andrea. You soul is intangible. Our love is intangible. In keeping it from him...do not keep it from yourself. I love you so so much, and they cannot take it.”

“I love you too Lucy, I love you so much. I am so sorry. So sorry,”

“Do not be sorry Andrea. Be unapologetic. Exist unapologetically. I will always be here Andrea, I will never leave you. I swear to you that. But you must live. You must live for both of us. You have so much life left. So much life in you. I will wait for you and we will have eternity together.”

And here she was. The soft, Catholic, maid I had met on a Saturday afternoon as she fitted me for a garden party dress. If there was anyone who could make me believe that a God existed it was her. Lucy. My angel. My salvation. My redemption. Lucy. If the gates of Heaven did not open to her then what hope was there for the rest of us. And perhaps I could cling to that. If she was being torn away from me as a torturous lesson, maybe it was because the splendour of the heavens could no longer wait to be reunited with the long lost piece of themselves.

Except from the short story Dance With Her 

My will wilts in the wake of your words.

To change a heartbeat 

I know now Why you said it As he tells me he loves me Tells me I should open up more  As he tells me he loves me I feel the words clawing their way up my throat 'You don't even know me' I know now why you said it

And I do not blame you