thanks.

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There is a girl in my lecture who has blonde hair, and a vulnerable face. She wears pale cotton blouses and cardigans that look like my grandmother's and has a set mouth.
And she has a doll, it must be at least eleven inches and it sits on her desk. The doll has an elvish face, and short, blonde hair and twig-green skin.
In my classes, sometimes I hear girls talk about the girl, how odd she is.
Please, don't listen to them. One week, when I felt upset and uncontrolled and shaky, I saw you and your doll, and I understood why you brought her.
I even pretended she was mine. And I felt better.

I guess I just wanted to say -Thanks.
Stay strong.

favourite

This is by Some Girl. I don't know if she's leaving blogger. But she is an incredible writer and blogger. I had two favourites when I began blogging 15 months ago, and she was one of them. This is an excerpt from her latest post.

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I started this blog because I needed to know what I looked like on the inside. I needed to build a separate perception of myself...I never looked into my own face until I started this blog. This has been a simultaneous process of hiding and revealing. What I hid during the day, I revealed at night to a blank Word document. I used to be someone was the first sentence I ever wrote here and it's one of the truest things I've ever said. I used to be someone, I used to be a lot of people. First, I was a walking archive and then an arsonist, searing the past, memories and people alike, into ashes and then I was just some girl sorting through the wreckage. I can write myself out of anything, even the past versions of myself. I wrote until the multiplicity shrank so tiny that the ropes loosened and fell away. I used to be the person who needed to build this place but I don't want to be that person anymore. The clock has rolled back to zero and I am free.

Broken

By P.s. I Am Me from Shades of Green and Grey

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It would be easy to fall apart.
Piece by tiny piece.
And it’s hard to be put back together again once this happens.
Because, like with all puzzles, pieces get lost.
Maybe you’ll never be whole again.

post

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I miss writing poetry.
But it's one of those things I can't control.
Occassionally I've tried to force myself to write,
but I never like the poems later.
But it's a past-time that I really cherish.

I hope my words come back.
I'm getting sick of excerpts and sad stories.

So, maybe for a bit I'll post other things than my writing,
things I love and want to share.
Just enough to remind me.

not mine.

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That the way light
bounces off your skin
has nothing to do with who you are.

That smokers believe
they need to die a little,
just to go outside.

That art has always hated the frame you put it in
and would lash out,
kicking and screaming in the streets,
if you gave it half a chance.

That the way lovers touch
can not be communicated in words,
no matter how often or how hard you try.

That your body fights your mind
and your mind fights your soul
and your soul fights the world,
to try and figure out what you are.

That sometimes, you're just tired.
That's all.

- http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me

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.

about before

i know

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last words

this not knowing is the worst.
not knowing how much i can say and how much it will mean.
how much is known.
but maybe it's better this way.
as long as it's kept secret.

so here's a promise

i won't tell.

but don't you either.

because these are the real kind of secrets

the one's that not even best friends know,

the kind that keep you awake at night.

and i guarantee noone will already know.

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i should stop listening Carole Bayer Sager before i say something stupid.

letterhead #3

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Dear you,
I went through and read all your posts today
and that's when i realised.
Frozen raspberries, that's all you said, but that was enough.
So now,
I think I know something about you.
And you don't want people to know.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I found out,
I'm sorry I stole a part of you that was private and made it mine as well.
(even if it made me feel better)
This changes things.
Because we don't actually know each other.
But I always have wanted to know you,
you just never seemed to really like me.
and now you've stopped blogging.
and i wonder if you realised first and stopped.

But this is my secret too,
so maybe we'll just have to share.
maybe it won't matter because you'll never read this and i'll never say anything.

But if you do:
i did always want to be friends.
i'm sorry i didn't realise how sad you were earlier this year.
i'm sorry i found out.
please don't tell anyone.
because i've written these things because i can't say them
because i don't want to.
because there are consequences and i've discovered that.
and please don't judge (i didn't)
also, i meant every word in the poem.

i don't know if this will change our friendship.
mostly i think it won't.

if you really have stopped.
congratulations, i guess blogging is almost a process of healing.
you've completed the test.

with love,

i wonder if i shall post this.