Write Like A Song. Or Write Like Somebody Else. Write About Anything So Long As It’s Not Yourself,

i was going through boxes of books and old clothes when i found the scarf you lent me.

we were going to the football and it was cold and i didn’t bring a jacket, so you lent me your scarf- your favourite team scarf.

how is it possible for a scarf to claw its way into my chest and stop my heart from beating? it’s not? well, it’s happening. it’s possible.

i almost forgot what it was like to be 16, and to love my best friend with my whole heart- my best friend who secretly loved me a little too much;

i almost forgot what it was like at 18 to kiss you in the dead of night and dismiss you in the morning;

i almost forgot how entwined we once were, how many libraries i could fill with every story and aching that passed between us.

staring at your scarf, now dusted by 10 years, i can’t think of anything else.

all I’ve every wanted is to be seen. i’m sick of fighting for it- and i refuse to shrink to fit into your periphery.

i don’t care if it’s cliché to love the dead poet’s society. it’s a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, i’ll never be right.

🥰🥰😭😭 this is so damn sweet

there’s an echoing in my bones telling me to

leave this place

and not return.

i can’t decide if it’s fear or fire.

my jaw clenches

and my teeth grit

and i can’t seem to stop the rope

from slipping, fraying.

my tether is escaping me

and is it fear or fire?

i need to know

before i decide.

do i leave this place?

this purpose and pay check?

do i slink away like a fox

in the night?

where’s the rope?

hello?

where’s the light?

hello?

can you hear me?

how could i kill the weeds

when i watch the bees frolick

among them?

Girls when they life starts to sound little bit too much like the fig tree analogy by Sylvia Plath

my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.

the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.

i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.

i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.

my favourite sounds at 2am:

the soft buzz of the refrigerator downstairs

the steady hum of the a/c above my head

the faint rustle of the trees by my window*

*(my actual favourite sounds at 2am:

the softness off your exhale as you lay beside me

the rustling of my sheets as you turn toward me

the steady beating of your heart as you press your chest against mine.)

defines you? no.

shapes you? moulds you? becomes you? yes.

our identity is malleable as fuck. our experiences warp it day in and out. the good and the bad.

and this is not to invalidate you: your traumas are real, stifling, and the consequences echo.

but never forget they’re not what’s written under “you” in the dictionary.

they’re just littered throughout your wiki.

“your trauma doesn’t define you” no actually it does. it dictates every aspect of my shitty life.