How Can You Not Expect Me To Get Attached When The First Thing You Said To Me Was, 'oh You've Read That

nothing ever feels the same. that is the horrible cliche everbody hears, and years down the road they realize, huh, the pain stopped. but the road, the road, what of it? you wake up every morning, for 7 consecutive sundays and realize, oh it's stopped, has it stopped? the eighth sunday is however bad, you wakeup with a picture of how his head would rest right on top of yours. and just like that, it's back to square one.

I want to be fluent in french so bad.

what is it we find so dark and murky in the universe that we can't find in our silly synapses?

won’t you twirl me in the rain love, while the heavens shed the tears we won’t?

we are the next prometheus. will we end up like our own creator?

Feverishly romantic how the dead are depicted by the sudden fall, a thud yet graceful fall of an utterly blue veined hand. The last blink, and the mechanical writer stops, as if a last wave to the living, sleeping on the bed when your longed lover lies on the floor, an earthly blanket over their serene sleep, a hand falls when leaving quite unconsciously towards the beloved. Its as if gravity aids the newly departed to rejoin their dead, the hand now closer to the earthly buried, where their waiting lover lies, crept over with flowery vines like snakes and brown contoured skin. The thud of a hand, dangling from the bed, now so much closer in seconds than they had been in years.

take me back to when I wished on eyelashes, full of childish hope, when I used to ask for toys for christmas.

I find an eyelash now, and wish for everything to turn out okay. I don't believe anymore, but wishing on eyelashes just fills me with longing for what was and what never will be.

turns out mixing narcissism with deep rooted insecurity was a spell for disaster.

"i never see you getting angry, when i was your age i used to be so, so angry"

perhaps we're more similar then i think mother, i don't think I've stopped screaming internally since the 7th grade, the amount of violence it took to convert my tears into deep-rooted anger, but i listen to your sad past anyways, unflinchingly, all my anger directed towards my grandmother, and her grandmother, and hers, a long line of cruel women, who in turn built crueler versions of themselves. i can't tell you about how each time i look into a mirror, i see not myself, but all the crueler and harder versions of me, and i see you, the woman i swore not to be when i was little.

i cursed you for sacrificing so much, but I'm older now mama, now i feel the same rage as you do and i curse at how you are all i could be in the future, with the same screaming daughter inside.

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say