I love you, but
in your absence
of your desire
has never changed
how can I believe
we can be different
if you have nothing
new to say
I know you miss me
the feeling of my body
next to yours
if I were only a body
would be so easy
but I'm so much more than that
I thought you could see
but I'm no longer sure
you've never said
you miss our conversations
or the poems I wrote about you
you've never acted
on your stated willingness
to go to counseling
or otherwise make positive changes
I have been alone
a long, long time
even while in relationships
we had something different
in the end
it's more of the same
it's me to blame
while the fire
of your desire
so when you are lit
you come by for a hit
and you know
I love you, but
this has to end.
Somewhere at the Bottom of the Morgue
I rarely miss anyone enough for it to be painful
I miss time
But the tangible slips
It is leaky-faucet drips
People are context
People are stillborn
I miss hands and mouths
I mourn words
I mourn touch
I hold funerals for sunbeams that fell through leaves long since passed
You will find me penning epithets to hungry breath lost on cold air
I will leave flowers where music once rang
I will dig holes 6 ft deep for ghosts
And leave the bodies to rot, carrion-feast
And I will drown weightless in their graves as I stitch myself to phantoms
Darling, I can still hear it still
It came unstuck last night.
I told Tabitha to fix it. I told her. I really did this time.
Last time though, I forgot.
I am always forgetting things.
Like why, when I wake, my bed is always so very cold, as if a shadow walked over my soul.
And why, when I dress, each garment itches, though I had determined months previously to extract every label, every loose stitch, every imperfection.
Yet still, my skin crawls as the fine hairs of my clothing send spiders scuttling over the surface of my warped and wrinkled flesh.
But the flap was different.
I remembered the flap.
I remember how it sounded, disturbing the silence with its metallic screech, the patter of paws and the clatter of claws, stealing through my frozen heart.
Every time the strays descend, the armada lurches in my chest. The waves rise and the ocean lifts, and the spray then seals my lungs. I cry out at night, praying now for silence, when once, the sounds meant peace.
So please, darling, when you visit next, tell Tabitha to nail the flap, to bury those memories.
A broken heart cannot bear the sound, especially when it’s me.
#author #writer #dream #fiction #fantasy #memory
Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk
I like to wear sweat pants in autumn. A nice pair goes a long way, and the ones I wear always make me feel the best. Especially as I walk down the sidewalk in the nippy air, watching the vibrant hues of trees ready to shed their leaves. Some had already done so, and the leaves were swept into neat piles by the main road. Throughout the day, people would walk past them and disturb the immaculate pile that sat unnoticed beside them.
I enjoyed watching the people that walked by.
Thigh boots. Skinny jeans. Sweater vests. Knitted scarves. I like to see everyone in the ambers, the crimsons, the earthy browns--the cascading colors that carefully wrapped our naked, aging bodies. People watching, with the outfits and the colors, was a very entertaining past time for me. I like watching. But something told me I wasn't one to participate. And I never will have the chance to, anyways.
Unfortunately, I died a month ago. The sweats I still wore from that tragic day was the outfit I'd spend eternity in. I've accepted it, quite quickly actually. There's not a whole lot to consider when the option has already been taken out of your hands. I appreciate that. Not having to spend too much time worrying about how you look, how you walk, how you talk. To some degree, I finally have relief.
However, moving on was an entirely different problem. I walked down the sidewalk, passing by the coffee shops. My nostrils filled with pumpkin spice. I missed that smell, the taste too. There are some disadvantages to being dead, especially in autumn. I sighed. I forgot what a pumpkin spice latte tasted like. That was more frustrating than I anticipated. But, among all the other frustrating things I have encountered, I liked how simple that felt.
My name? Forgot it. My parents? Don't know them. My past? Who knows. But the most exhausting thing plauging me constantly, to no avail, was how did I die?
Wandering, ironically enough, helps me find the memory I have lost. The pumpkin spice. The people dressed in shades of sunset. My reflection in the windows. I hoped that as the winds of chance pulled me and my aimless wandering continued maybe I could find out all the answers I craved.
But until then, I was content to settle for the people watching. By far the most enjoyable moments are when I see the shocked look of people that pass through me. Something told me they must have been cold. But that was mostly because nobody wore sweats. Sweats are so comfortable in autumn. They are my favorite thing to wear, even as I walk lonely in the bustling sidewalk.
Sometimes I doubted--was I really dead? Probably, I would always decide. I was unsure what this level of invisibility meant otherwise. I wasn't hungry. Wasn't thirsty. Didn't feel tired in the slightest. I just felt empty. And I missed what it meant to be a part of the lively people that walked briskly around me.
I was like the pile of leaves, sitting next to the road. Dead. Unnoticed. Empty. As I lay down next to them, I was surprised at my dismay when I wished I was wearing something more colorful than grey sweats.
Leave Me Loving Shadows
"I'll always love you,
But I don't think I can stay."
Well, what the fuck does that mean?
Just don't love me, anyway.
Don't fill me full of feelings
Flinging caution in the air
Then just leave me loving shadows
And pretending someone's there.
Just tell me how you hate me
And you'll never change your mind
Collapse me in my own tears
So my salt eyes make me blind.
If you say you'll always love me
Then I'll always love you too
So just tell me you can't stand me
And I'll say I can't stand you.
Today I woke up in acceptance.
I tell you it’s been a long while since I’ve felt whole.
Old memories are set to pause.
An I play today’s rendition.
My spirit sings a harmonizing tune.
Move with the days ebb an flow, a note to self.
Today I feel my path.
Today I know my purpose.
Nervous energy is no more for today’s love greets me with open arms.
Today I am free
loving you shouldn’t hurt this much
I pause. Inhale quickly. My chest constricts, and my vision tunnels.
Seeing you shouldn't hurt this much.
I want to run into your arms. Tell you how much I missed you. That I love you.
That I will always love you.
But instead I just smile. Wave. Exchange pleasantries.
Keep it all inside.
We promise to stay in touch, no matter the distance between us.
And maybe we will... for a while.
But I know eventually you'll find a girl. And fall in love.
And I won't be able to watch from the sidelines anymore.
Because this hurts too much. Because I need to move on.
Because loving you is just too hard.
you make up stories from the ink on my skin, assuming they end with only regret. with each dot, each millisecond of pain, I come into my own world inch by inch. I am a conglomeration of art, ideas, humanity, and it shows. I am a visual of my own personality, so you don't have to ask, although your assumptions may be quick and hard while my person is wary and soft. my ink is my choices. who I am one day may not be who I am the next, but I was still that person at one point. that will always be a part of me. and so will the ink that is burried beneath the quick surface of my skin.
Breathe. Just breathe. They all tell me that it's the best solution, but it doesn't seem to help any longer. I've been hiding from my demons for so long, hiding from the pain, the regret, and the shame. I tried the bottle, and all I found was more misery and despair, bringing my skeletons out of the closet and into the lives of those around me. I hurt them, and that hurt me even deeper than simply wallowing in my own agony. Everyone gives me the same advice about facing my past, the atrocities I saw and helped commit, but none of them can possibly understand me. My parents, my siblings, my friends. None of them have witnessed the horrors I have. They haven't seen cities with bodies littering the streets as far as the eye can see nor pits where the dead have been pilled atop eachother haplessly as if they never even mattered. I've seen that. I've caused that. There's nothing a doctor or therapist can understand about it. They tell me to slow everything down when I start to feel overwhelmed by it all, the emotions and memories that plague me, and I tell them just breathing isn't fixing anything. I can't outrun something inside myself. I just can't. I wish it was as simple as that.