Food, water, shelter.

photo.   

She no longer takes care of herself.
You can see the sun through her skin, it's too thin (like eyelids). It won't hold a shadow.
Her hands are soft and pink and splotchy.
She won't stop trying to distract herself.
She won't turn and face her troubles instead of continuing these futile attempts to ignore them.
Somebody tell her to get a grip.
Caring for yourself takes more than this.
It's time to wake up.

Letterhead #12

photo.  



Dear Bella,
I feel so shit today.
It's like everything you said last night has seeped into me.
I meant it when I said
"You can't depress me, I've been there already.
I've thought all these things before"
But this morning it got into me,
(maybe it's because I was reminded of how i used to think)
I will not tell you.
Because I can let go of it now,
I can already feeling it sliding away
and I don't want you to think
you are hurting me.
Even if you are a bit.

Possession

photo.  

it envelops her once more
tucking her up
neat and trapped
inside its suffocating fragile embrace
a frosted gaze
unnoticed glazed
look betrays her
as her heavy mind catches alight
dangerous rampant sparks
tease the blackening white
of her papery cage
the corners furl
forgotten smoke pressing on her
she reaches out
now she's burning those near
and fear takes hold
of her frayed reins
soon she'll have no control
she's running in and out of ways
to make this right
she'd try to warn
anyone who tries to stay
but she's lost hold
her mind's ablaze

tired

photo.  

I can't sleep.
I don't sleep anymore.
Instead,
I dream.
I dream myself in and out of reality
Weaving between fears
And Hopes.
I'm always tired,
My body may rest but I don't.
I never do anymore.

Calling

photos.  

I want to let it consume me.
To slip backwards into the warm ocean's thick embrace
and float, swim even.
I keep forgetting
that there are stones in my pockets
there are stones in the lining of my clothes
are stones tangled in the locks of my hair
stones wedged in my throat
in place of my eyes.

I keep forgetting
I will sink.

your story

photos.  

Watery sunlight leaks through your curtains, your eyelids.

It will become apparent to you, maybe wake you.
Gradually and then suddenly.
You will tug at your limbs, that lie dead against the thin, the white sheets.

It will be easier to give up.
To lie in half darkness, to let it wrap you up in it's consuming warmth. To let it smother you. To stay there all day, longer.
And so you will. You will lie and sleep and doze in a murky haze of reality.
You will lose track of time.
Family, then friends will worry. And -even though none of them are bright enough, and those that are will be too bright, too artificial- they will want you to wake up. But no, all the while you will drag your heavy curtians shut tighter.

You will choose darkness. Because there is a kind of comfort. A familiarity in it.

You will choose darkness. Because for as long as you can remember, that's how you knew it would be.

You will choose darkness. Because that's how the story goes.

ever after

This is a post by Ever, that i adore.

There is so much,

too much,

to say.

I can't begin to wrap the words together

nor can I undo the ones I have created.

The thing about creativity is

once it is done,

it cannot be undone.

The intricate vines that you weave

layer themselves

into the most unspoken beauty.

They thicken until each and every reader

is shut out

from their truth; their connotation.

The denotation,

while pleasent and blooming

with lilacs and sweet pea blossoms,

is never what it seems.

Eventually, what you have created

will begin to bloom itself

cascading into the neon sharpness,

carving into acute angles.

Withering until the flower-scent

seeps into your mind.

It's pollen wiggles into the crevices,

dangling along your neurons

puncturing your occipital lobe.

These vines encase you

wrapping into a tight shell,

protecting your innermost softness

and locking your secrets up tight.

Together, you sprout thorns.

la vérité

photos.  

here we go again
with your false hope and my reckless promises
your meaningful looks and my empty words
your beliefs and my aversion to changing them.

the storyline's the same we just rearrange the characters

Dylan.

Don't you realise?
Nothing has changed.
NOTHING.
And all I keep thinking is how I hate how lately it's been an effort to stay friends.
How you're starting to annoy me more than anything.
How when I feel shit, I can't tell you.
How you seem so cocky to me these days.
How you always seem uncomfortable.
How I feel uncomfortable because I feel like you want a relationship, when I can only handle a friend.
How even the songs you write about me are actually about you.
How you only ever make the effort to talk to me over the phone, or internet
   when I want something more real than that.
But then again, I guess we've always wanted different things.

And then I think: fuck you.
And that's how this all began.
And that's why it's falling apart.


I NEED A BREAK.

"Letting go doesn't always mean giving up, but rather accepting that there are things that cannot be."

photos.   

(sorry I gave up)

                                                                                                this one is about me.