I think I’ll turn my body in to a canvas. I’ll add a bit of colour here and there and make sure it reflects the colours of my mind. I think I’ll tattoo my body and use it as a map, so if I’m ever lost, I’ll be able to find exactly where I have to go next. You see, I’m tired of people drawing all over my back with pens and blades. I’m tired of them using my back as drawing paper, which they crunch and throw away later. I’m tired of them carving their names and their broken promises to every inch of my skin and then calling me imperfect for the cracks and edges.
I’m on a mission. A mission to convert my body in to my own canvas. A canvas; so god damn beautiful and magnificent that Picasso himself would be jealous. A canvas, that you will want to study and follow the dotted lines to. A canvas, that will make you fall in love.
Tie my hands against the dawn of the new day
and count the strands of brown hair that falls across my face.
Watch my eyes flutter open and memorise that moment.
Kiss all the bruises from my ex lovers
and my past away,
Carve your deepest secrets in to my spine,
I will use them to stand up straight when everything else is falling
I will use my string of words to pick you up
when all your broken bits are thrown out.
Re-read her love letters
Throw away his.
Untie the knots in my stomach
and use it as a noose instead.
We were never made to last
We were built with sand and lost hope in our bones
We are indestructible
We are the thunder growing at the pit of our hungry bellies
We are the bolts of lightning in their center of our throbbing chests
We are our own rainstorms.
A friend breaking your heart always hurts more than a lover doing so.
I wore black today. I thought wearing black would be appropriate as I was mourning the death of our friendship. Black dress, black ribbon, black shoes, even black underwear. I removed my sparkly earrings and wore a black necklace instead, with the word ‘Karma’ hanging from its center. It burned like a hot blade against my skin. I refilled the vodka flask that I spent the night before emptying, with black
coffee instead. I had to stay awake for the funeral. I had to “mourn my loss.” But that’s when it hit me. That’s when I realised that it wasn’t a loss. You see, death usually implies something that was taken from you unwillingly. Someone taking something from you without there being much of a choice.
You had a choice. You had a fucking choice. But you decided to kill our friendship anyway, because it meant nothing to you. It was a murder. Cold blooded, blue murder.
I should have worn red instead. I should have worn my set of white pearls and donned my darkest shade of red lipstick. I should have laughed and clawed at your corpse. I should have thanked you for showing me that we were never friends to begin with.Trust and loyalty meant nothing to you. You were right when you said “I’m not like the others”. You are far worse. The others never had the heart to do what you did. The others cared. The others were human. You were different. You were the worst. I only wish I had known sooner.
I hope one day, karma finds home in your arms. I hope one day, karma scratches its name in to your skin. And I hope you remember forever how it feels, to trust someone, only to find out that they threw everything away with just a snap of their fingers, without a care in the world. As if you meant nothing.
Dear you, this is the end. I would ask you to Rest in Peace, but I’d be lying.
I know it’s tempting and I know its exciting. I know it gives you goosebumps and I know it also makes you feel alive. But you can’t keep playing with fire and expect not to get burnt, every single time. You can’t keep cutting yourself and expect not to see blood, every single time and you can’t rip your heart out of it’s prison cell and toss it to the wind, hoping someone would bring it back. You’re not invincible. You’re not fire proof. You can’t keep doing this over and over again. At some point, you’re going to have to choose yourself.
Despite what they tell you, despite what you’ve heard over and over; two broken halves don’t make a whole. Two broken halves never quite fit back the same way, even with the world’s best glue and tape. There will always be missing pieces, missing fragments that got swept under the sofa or lost between the floor boards. And my darling, we had lost so many pieces, growing up. We had lost so many fragments and pieces of ourselves in corners and clenched fists around world, that our two halves, never quite made a whole.
There’s this thing about loneliness. Once you get used to it, once you get good at it, it’s hard to go back from that. And for that, I am sorry. I could never be your whole, despite you desperately wishing that I was. Despite you desperately wishing that I could be.
You see, despite the lost pieces, I had made a whole by myself – gathering up pieces I thought I needed along the way. Gathering up pieces I didn’t think I needed, desperately trying to fix my own puzzle. When you came along, I thought maybe you were a missing piece, but you were your own puzzle. My darling, you were your own puzzle, desperately trying to find your missing pieces. And it killed you, that I wasn’t one of them.
Your skin is a mirror of last nights dirty sheets.
Your tongue; a bottle of daisy cologne.
Your clothes are stitched from twisted truths and a dark motel room.
Your eyes sparkle with 5 shades of lust.
The nape of your neck; throbs with bruised red scars
from teeth marks and lipstick that wasn’t mine.
Your fingertips; calloused and rough spent the night carving highways on someone’s else body.
I admire how your 10 stride walk up to me
was effortless and graceful.
The least you could have done,
the least you could have done,
the least you could have done,
was to delete last night’s pictures from your phone.
I am a jar of butterflies and moths. I am a novel of ‘Uhmms’ and nervous twitches. I am a balloon of confidence and smart comebacks. I am also a sack of positive soul food. I am a bowl of excited chatter and hysterical rants.I am greedy and love. I am everything that is allowed to be. I am torn and stitched together. I am bruised and flawless. I am hot water in a quivering glass. I am a ticking grenade at a Christmas dinner. I am always fight and win. I am precious moments and heartbreaks. I am everything.
And then there’s him.
He’s a shaken bottle of champagne. He’s an encyclopedia of scars and dark stories. He’s mystery and secret romance that blossoms under the moonlight. He’s withheld promises and careful touches. He is the bomb squad. He is the glue and duct tape. He is soul and a strong seductive voice. He is a warm mug of hot cocoa. He is crumbling toast and peanut butter. He is all the wonder and beauty of an eclipse and he is all the destruction and beauty of an avalanche.He is always fight and win. He is everything.