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.
Hearts; trapped in rib caged prisons,
are often given out like candy on Halloween,
And are often returned bruised and purple.
Some learn to heal faster than others.
These are the dangerous ones
They puff out their chests like a peacock
and walk around with the confidence of being invincible,
ready to be broken all over again.
They wear a shield of armour, each one stronger than the one before.
It’s these fixed ones you have to watch out for.
They run in to battle every time, regardless of the consequences.
And there are some hearts,
The ones who desperately try to avoid the super glue and hope
They’re like soldiers who return home from war,
And are asked to go back to fight after a month
They walk around, limping and shivering from PTSD
They don’t always learn to beat the same way again
They only heal once the war is completely over.
Once they know for sure they don’t have to fight another day.
Hearts are brave little things.
Give them room to heal and grow.
Give them a reason to keep beating.
I find myself falling in love with things out of my reach, like the sky or you. I find myself holding on to things that are desperately begging to be let go off. Things that don’t want to be held or touched. Things that love to run away. I’m not used to being in one place for a long time. I’m used to being temporary. I’m used to new places and new faces. I’m used to running away. I gave you my heart; bandaged and glued together, and you had the audacity to give it back with more cracks. I don’t believe in much but I believe in expiration dates. I find myself always looking for them on the back of milk cartons and on relationships. Things aren’t meant to last long. At least that’s what I’ve been shown. Until you drove past my darkest thoughts and stopped to listen.
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.
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.
Falling in love with you was like skinny dipping in winter
Falling in love with you was like
standing in the pouring rain
holding the key high enough
hoping to feel some sort of spark
some sort of electricity.
It was reckless
It was a suicide attempt.
Falling in love with you
was the only thing I felt good at.
– excerpts from a book I’ll never write.
I’ll call her my very own ballerina
as she pirouettes in and out of my mind;
her feet barely touching the ground
passionate, yet seemingly detached
as if they weren’t real limbs at all.
I’ll call her my very own ballerina
as she turns and points and scurries through my thoughts
poised and graceful;
dancing her own performance in hypnotic circles
in the theater of my mind.
She finishes in a grande jeté,
She leaps forward from my hidden corners
and bows in front of me,
white knuckles clenching a beating heart
She was my muse,
and I, her biggest balletomane.