I want to write.
And yet here I am, deleting the same line over,
and over,
and over.
It feels like sometimes, words simply...
f
 l
  o
   w
      from us.
And the other times, words come to a
s
t
o
p.
We can't control it. Maybe others can. I can't. It's something so uncontrollable, and yet so unnoticeable. When the words flow, writing is so simple.  
I have a friend who says she can't write. I have multiple friends like that, who spend hours on a small haiku because they can't break that dam that stops the flow of thoughts and words and everything in between. 
The dam can be repaired, of course. But sometimes, once broken and rebuilt, it's easier to break again.

We were made for the gods, for petty entertainment.
We were made for the gods, we fight their battles. 

They will laugh their shallow laughs,
watch in amusement of our blood baths. 
We were made for the gods, sculpted and shaped. 
We died for the gods, in an attempt to escape. 
We were made for the gods, and learned to hate.
but
mortal wars are far worse
disagreement becomes a curse. 
fatalities and crying mothers
all because of hating others. 

human hate. 
​limp on a puppet string, dangling from perpetual power. 

How I wish it would stop. 


 

i just sent a message 
to someone who i can't say the name of
because they hurt me
and now i'm screaming
because i can't talk to them
and no one knows i sent a message
so i'm in a full-blown panic
because i'm scared they hate me.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

You don't wanna talk to me or listen to me or hear what it is I want to tell you so badly and that's fine.
You never want to listen to anyone anyway.
You'll never understand what it's like for everyone else because you never listen.
You don't care and you don't want to.
You're stubborn and greedy and everything I dislike in a person.
You picked and poked at the people I love for being different.
You nag and nudge because you can never be like them.
You can never be original or funny or free.
You'll always be trapped by your own hate, unable to be happy, unable to let go.
You'll never understand what it's like to be born in a body that you don't feel is yours.
You'll never know what it's like to be scoffed at and ridiculed for being yourself.
You'll never know love or friendship or family and for that, I feel sorry for you.
You're just too busy being torn by hate and chewed up by its disgusting mouths.

Here's what I need. Next time you speak to me, call me a baddass before you talk or ask about my ass. I need every person who makes an objectifying  comment, sexual advance, or otherwise problematic innuendo, to imagine they're saying it to their baby sister. To their neighbor. To the kindergarteners we walk past out in the world, to the mothers who fought so hard for equal opportunity in the workplace. I need each and every person to ask themselves before they speak, "Does this sentence use a woman as an object? Am I going to benefit the people around me by saying this, or am I simply insecure?"

Because while I can recover from your comments, jokes, and phrases that are seen as normal in our culture of harassment, I don't know if she can. I don't know if the next girl can. I can't sit back and watch while those around me suffer. This language is not normal. It CANNOT be normal. It's ludicrous that women are subjected to crude comments wherever they go. 

You asked me, "Do you miss me enough to swallow back the spice filled, delirium inducing elixir?" And I responded "I loved you enough not to" There isn't a moment in time your memory doesn't flash across my consciousness. A moment your smile doesn't cross my mind, Or your laugh doesn't invade my senses. Nearly a year later my heart still cries out for you in my sleep. I still yearn to hold you again. Not a moment your sarcasm doesn't reach, And I don't feel your judgment of my actions. You remind me not to. Your memory serves as a guide. It hold the place my own judgment used to lie. I no longer am capable of asking you what i should do. I can no longer sit next to you eating ice cream. Or find lost books in the forest. I can no longer see your motorcycle, Nor feel the sun hit my face as we swam at the beach. I will never see your face again. But when it ended. I was not the one seeking guidance. You sought out closure, and understanding. Your fear, your hope, your pain,

and i believed you 
when you said those three words
so go ahead and call me a fool
or a b!tch
or a hopeful lover
but i guess its better than 
never loving at all. 

love is pain. 
that's how i will almost always
link love with anything. 

because you taught me that. 

you stabbed my heart 6 months ago.

i'm still bleeding.

i have these flashbacks
whenever someone says or
does something. i think of
you and only you for
a couple of moments, and 
how you loved me. 

and now
someone loves me the way 
you used to, and though
i may want to (I DONT KNOW)
i cant love them back
because of what you did
to me.

so.

if you see this in the future,
i want you to know
how much you hurt me. i 
may never recover.

and all because of you.