what nobody can warn you about, is the loneliness you feel. after a life is solitary independence, after a life of living inside of flesh-built-brick-walls, when everything comes tumbling down - what you’re not prepared for, is loneliness. 

i opened doors to let you, whether you wanted it or not. i struck holes in the walls so i could pass you notes, and you smiled, but you never wrote back. i got used to fingers brushing against mine - i got used to secrets and kisses and bittersweet mornings, trying to peel ourselves apart. 

and now space seems suffocating, i need your arms, i need your breath and your sleep - i need you, constantly to make the rest of my existence seem less pathetic.

and the moment you’re gone, you truly are. there are no flags, no flares no signals out to the world that you need me anymore. you are you, and you are solo and i am only me.

so i’m lonely, i am alone and i am empty and i’ve got no-where to hide, because i destroyed everything to welcome you in to the place you had no satisfaction in staying.

this is hard on me. this is too hard on me.

there is a fear that lives in my chest. a fear that doesn’t have a name but burns black in the darkness until it almost seems invisible and everybody else tut’s it off as a hallucinogenic nightmare and everybody laughs. but there it is, sitting in between my collar-bones and my tangy flesh and it waits. it waits until the world’s asleep and love is nestled far away - and it strikes.

i’m not good enough, not ever good enough, never good enough for the air in my lungs, for the flesh at my fingers, or for the burn of stomach acid in my throat. i’m the wrong person in the wrong body waiting for the moment i burn into nothing but the ice cold winds of hell.

and as suddenly as it hits, the dark storm of terror - it sails away again, and i almost, almost forget it even happened but the panic rings in my ears, and i can hear the echo of my screams for somebody to help and i can’t just help but wonder what’s wrong with me.

i can’t write anymore, because i feel weird. nothing inside of me is right, and i get claustrophobic when i’m alone, and i get panicked when i’m not, and i don’t know what to do. i don’t know how to live my life when everything is backwards.

so i guess for now, i’ve just got to swim against the sea of everything my body is telling me, and try to find a stable place to rest my mind, refocus, rekindle and think. 

i’m stuck in this land of anti-insomniacs nightmares. i’m being chased through this dusty house, by rabid dogs and men in black suits and i’m holding this wispy girl’s hand as she begs between her gritted grimy teeth. and we’re holding and praying and watching the sun set into a car crash every time we blink. but there we are, running and sweeping our footprints away, because at some point they’re going to catch up - the least we can do is try to hide.

but nobody can ever hide, nobody can escape their fear and the moment that we inevitably think that we can - the nightmares come, hesitant reminders that there is nothing we can do, not now and not ever to take the screaming children from our thick skulls and shut them up - nothing can take away that infinity of darkness and uncertainty, and nobody but the black witch can offer you an escape from death - and everybody knows that the price she is asking is too high, too high for a mere mortal like yourself. 

everybody knows that you are too human enough to escape this goddamn labyrinth.

i’m ready to run and hide and fight and cry. i’m ready for happy and sad and flittering in between. i’m ready to bow my head in defeat and taste the salt of tears the moon sheds every night as he’s pushed back into dormancy. i was nobody once, and i’ll be nobody again before my bones sink beneath this godforsaken house, and nobody can tell me any differently.

i’m alone, really. a lonely girl in a lonely town with lonely friends and a dead cat.

happiness feels like a blown light globe, it tastes like sun-burnt sand, and sugar crystals. and it melts at your fingertips so quickly, that if your eyes couldn’t focus, you would miss it. gone, slipped away into the dark night like fairies from childhood. gone, eternally, forever and inevitably.

maybe you’re happy, and you just didn’t notice. 

i broke my compass
and i broke my spine,
hiding the shattered glass
of centuries of lusts lost loves.

i manufactured desire,
and i ran away. trailing
wanderlust circles on
the trodden earth.

smoke clouds,
and rainy days and
help, i’ve broken my compass.

christmas is deflated now - there’s no giant red shiny bow tied around that magical day when mystery strikes like an iron claw, and suddenly everybody is happy and everything tastes better and nobody gets left out. it’s less magical when our stockings are half full of things born out of necessity and thoughtlessness - of giftcards and oh-i-don’t-know-what-you-like. and i’m not a child anymore, and my eyes don’t well with tears when i see everybody else so happy, because maybe we’re not. maybe we’re all just as confused by this sudden realisation, as i am.

but i doubt it. i miss christmas, the real christmas, of magic and hope and standing on a chair to make pancakes with my dad - and watching christmas movies and listening to mum wrapping the presents in a mad dash at 10pm on christmas eve.

he smelt of dying mosquitos and caked dirt, pressed into every oracle of the small space he enclosed. i could feel his hot heavy breath flickering against the back of my neck, and in the stunted light of the oncoming traffic i could hear his teeth chattering together. i couldn’t blink, i couldn’t move, and i couldn’t look back. the fear echoing against my flesh was enevitable, the smell of his skin was burning at my nostrils and the sound of my heart beat was raising every time i felt his fingers slip across the back of my seat, and into my hair and i didn’t make a noise, i didn’t blink and then everything went silent. the world turned in slow motion and i gripped the steering wheel, ready for a fight and i breathed in and the smell of decay hit me like a fist, and i swerved away from the man hungry for my youth and i turned. to the empty darkness of paranoia, and i felt the prickle of fear leave my skin, and i turned around and i slithered home.

i get so wrapped up in the fiction of stories that i forget that that is all they are, fictions, lies, what everybody wants and nobody can touch. and i just want the magic of eighties teen movies, i want forever and promises and everything molly ringwald stood for. pathetic, it’s pathetic i know. but it’s so sweet, so sentimental and perfectly normal and i just. want. 

i’ll bake gingerbread men, and shave my legs and put on a pretty dress. i’ll make myself feel pretty and i’ll read a book with a smile on my face and i’ll wait in the dull sunshine, and i’ll wait. i’ll wait until the moon will peek his eyes over the horizon, looking at me questioningly with his eyebrows raised and i’ll put out the burnt candles and i’ll pack away dinner and i’ll go straight to bed and think about how much i hate gingerbread and shaving my legs and leaving the house and i’ll revel in the fact that i did all of this for you, and you’ll never even know, and it won’t even cross your mind.

there’s just something about the days when the sun is hidden and the rain drops elegantly, rather than madly. something about waking up to the hidden sunlight peeking between loose curtains, and the smell of damp earth. something that makes my skin shiver and my mouth curve in a small silent smile, and everything is good - i’m home alone and the universe is my bittersweet friend and everything is easy.

i never want to leave this moment. 

and tumblr lost it. and now it’s gone.

i’m trying to write a poetry portfolio with strangely strict guidelines, for a class i rarelly attended.

and i’m struggling and somebody tell me something inspirational, so that i can move to my typewriter and push this bitch out of my brain.

YEAH MOTIVATION.