Past, present and ?

I've been thinking about fame. When the world is so stirred about trivial facts about you. Like, will there be a day I reach a stature so revered that there'll be a tumblr post of a picture of me, in greyscale, my smile a blur and my teeth the whitest in the plethora of greys. Its caption would read: she used to feel so small when she had a job at a cafe and so many 30 somethings would treat her without the slightest respect because of her youth which they either conceived with envy or didn't need to take seriously. Or maybe a torn out page from a love letter I wrote you would surface on the internet, the piece of paper raw on it's edges like a country on a map. The rougher it was torn the more people would subscribe to it, deeming it gold even if you and I had a perfectly ordinary love. This; if only somebody felt that way about me or I could read this letter over and over pretending it was addressed to me, would they say?

I've been wondering if my love was something people would feel privileged to have, cause lately I've been feeling like giving it is the only thing I'm good at. Maybe that'll explain why the only redeemable material I've come up with revolves around love. Love, you, lack of it, lack of you.

I hope you think I'm good at it.

I'm just always so afraid of living a life without building a name for myself. I don't want to be on billboards or have tens of thousands of likes on my photos. I just want to be remembered, even if it's by only one person. To matter. If writing ever takes off for me, I just want it to be known that I was never of any real talent or ambition. I'm still so lost everyday. Maybe when I become somebody with a considerable amount of popularity I'll find myself, but I'm pretty sure everybody struggles to get out of bed some mornings and most of our pillows soak up lost dreams. I really don't know what this post is for and about anymore I'm just so anxious about my future which is banking on a results slip and I just want to make a living from selling people words, I promise I'm good at keeping them and perhaps even better at writing them but that is all. 

THIS

“Too many young girls don’t know how to act when someone’s being inappropriate with them. They giggle or they try to brush it off. Don’t do that. Tell them to go fuck themselves - be a bitch. If someone’s being disrespectful to you, be disrespectful right back. Show them the same amount of respect that they show you.”

Wise words from my mom (via fleurlungs)

I need to learn this.

Haze of Gold

“In the 1960’s, the Italians called


the rising sun, a Haze of Gold.


They would climb upon their roof and talk about 
how the sun died every night,


only to be resurrected in the morning


just so they could see a glimpse of new life. 

you see, Sarah, I knew the boys we dated 
were bad ideas. I knew it from the very beginning,


and I think you did, too. 

We died 
every night to ourselves only to be rebirthed


out of their hearts, 

out of their failing kidneys, and out of their
weary bones - to become who they wanted us to be.


we died every night, dreaming of the horrors of what 
goodbye would mean for us, of what being alone would feel like,
but, 

come morning, we were alive again.


We were kissing with mouths open and 
painting Mona Lisa on the underside of their thighs. 


Come morning, they were playing symphonies on our 
ribs, as if our beauty was something they had to bring


out of us. 

Come morning, they were attaching strings


to our veins and arteries so they could control the way


we danced when we saw them. 

They wanted us to be fluid and containable objects they could love but place on their shelves when 
they were done with us.

Sarah, I am not saying we were fools, but we were 
very foolish for loving boys who only knew how to love us with 
their tongues. 

But we are not broken.


We stopped dying for them a long time ago
 and only allowed ourselves to be baptized in the 
beauty of every goodbye we never wanted,


but perpetually craved. 

The Haze of Gold has long since died out
and the dreams of new life and gazing of the setting sun
 has long since been forgotten,
 but NASA still sees a grey veil above 
the Po River Valley of Italy and sometimes, 
I think, we still want to be loved in
 all the wrong ways.”

Amanda Helm, Haze of Gold

Your ears feel like the cold steel tabletops I wipe to wile away the time when you're away

I swear I didn't mean to sound so sad

If I went to bed maybe I'd kiss you again

If I went to bed maybe I'd get creases on my skin 

Just so you could iron them out with your tongue

I tried to find you in the smoke of cigarettes I never lit

I was left gasping for air

Clutching my throat and all that was left of us 

once i was

Can't get this song out of my head. Show was pretty awesome to me. I don't know anything about the Buckleys except for Hallelujah, and maybe I should be ashamed of myself. But maybe I do now.

Once I was a soldier
And I fought on foreign sands for you
Once I was a hunter
And I brought home fresh meat for you
Once I was a lover
And I searched behind your eyes for you
And soon there'll be another
To tell you I was just a lie

And sometimes I wonder
Just for awhile
Will you remember me?

And though you have forgotten
All of our rubbish dreams
I find myself searching
Through the ashes of our ruins
For the days when we smiled
And the hours that ran wild
With the magic of our eyes
And the silence of our words

And sometimes I wonder
Just for awhile
Will you remember me?

Perf

The acrimony

If one day we part, if it happens at all

If they ask why

Tell them it's because

I could never learn how to stop giving

You were you.

And that is all. 

It takes me forever to fall asleep these days. I keep telling myself I can't revolve my entire life around one hour in a day. I tell myself I can't be selfish, I tell myself I should. I wait around all day for his name on my screen and it's borderline ridiculous, but I don't ever stop. I don't ever stop picking up before it's even had the chance to ring once. 

It's selfish but I want, I need more. I need more than phone calls that can last between a minute to thirty. I inwardly flinch at the pitch he drops to when he tell me he loves me, or at the silence when he doesn't until I do. People are nearby, and maybe it makes him uncomfortable.

I make excuses for him.

I tell myself it's really hard being in his place. 

I want to tell him everything, the stories I keep behind my teeth that just about fall out if not for me clenching them so hard because I should listen to him talk about his day first. Most times, they never see the light of day. I want to hear his stories, I love the excitement in his voice as he tells them, but I want to tell mine too. I want to go to bed feeling reassured and loved, but I only feel empty. Empty because everyday I'm collecting experiences I can't share and they're shaping me into someone he may not know anymore. This love is far from dead but I need to feel it, not assume it's there because I shouldn't dare to doubt it. He tells me he loves me everyday, but I've never felt more alone.

Bad faith

I love how you slip into silence

Like one would into a cashmere sweater

Languidly, almost dragging out the seconds of non-friction

Because it's always loose lips and white noise with me

Too much static, only to get lost in the airwaves from time to time

I love your stubby fingers for their strong hold on beliefs, for

Mine are long but crooked and bent

In more ways than one 

Almost everything slips between them.

I love your lips,

the parentheses of your smile.

What they lack in width they make up in height of the words you speak

Vowels seem taller than they normally should,

Especially those in my name.

Mine are too full, and I bite them

too often as if it were penance for how empty I am inside.

I love your teeth for what they promise, that I could induce happiness even if I may never conduct it

I love them, even if they might draw blood.

I love you, even if you might walk away.