1. The last thing his mother ever says to him, skin pallid, hands weakly clutching his, is this:

    “Stiles, you need to wake up.”

    Stiles/Derek, au

  2. The summer I learnt how it hurts to have yourself taken apart, piece by piece, happened to coincide with the summer I met you. Before all that I used to carry flowers to your house every day, watch you open your door
    and then slam it shut again; imagining that, one day, you’d see how beautiful the flowers really were.

    You never did.

    But I never stopped.

    There’s a certain finesse to love, one I never understood. You have to be gentle with it, let it grow. But I was always tearing it up before it could grow more than two leaves, too desperate to risk it dying. I couldn’t let it die. There used to be a tree outside our old house that’d never grow because it rained too much and it was one of those imported plants that needed sunlight. And the neighbours used to say How fucking stupid, all this rain and the tree still won’t grow. Imagine getting so much of something that you don’t feel anything at all.

    November I learnt sometimes you’re the only one who can fix you. And that sometimes you can love too much. Sometimes you try so hard to be something you’re not under the impression that you’re trying not to be anybody at all. December I stitched myself up. I didn’t write. January I wrote too much. February they told me about the pomegranate, and I felt it inside me like, here’s a thing I can put a name to. Here’s a thing.

    March taught me that there isn’t enough flowers in the world that could make you—-

    In this house there is a door, and behind that door is the way out, past the (love) stricken tales and old fingernail scratches. I spent so long thinking of you as my emergency exit that I forgot I was supposed to be running in the other direction. Behind that door is the way out, and even further than that is the truth, the truth you only find at the ends of storybooks and on the edges of old juice cartons.

    Come, tell (me) about the way the universe starts and the way it ends, curled up tight, like a child running from themselves. Tell me about happiness, because I’ve had enough sadness to last me a lifetime. Tell me about love, because I’ve never really seen it, not in myself, not in you. And maybe, when it doesn’t hurt so much, tell me about the way I loved you - desperate, useless, not at all, not at all.

  3. safety

    This year I promise myself I will do better. I save up all the bottles
    of shattered stained glass
    and try not to think about the irony.
    I build marble palaces out of stars
    and try not to think about black holes.

    This is stupid. This is stupid. This is stupid, you’re not—
    This year. This year I promise myself I’ll stop creating promises
    out of scars. I want to be something more than pretty.
    I want to be beautiful. I want to be fucking shocking.
    I will be more than the girl you want to fuck.
    My nails on your ribs set your teeth on edge. Who are you?
    I don’t know. This is stupid.

    This year I have been honest
    (maybe not always with myself)
    and I have been strong
    (er than I was last year). I don’t know about this. I don’t know.
    I’m still so
    terrified, is that the right word, is that right.
    Is this right, look at my hands, are they holding you
    like they’re supposed to. Tell me the truth.

    The truth, right. I didn’t sleep well last night,
    I kept getting my hands caught in spiderwebs.
    I dream of skeletons with eyes that are more sincere
    than mine. I don’t love unless I have to.
    I listen to songs that make me sad because they remind me
    of people who make me sad and that’s better than being nothing.
    The truth. This morning I was so sad it made me nauseous,
    but when I vomited all that came out was your name.
    Pretty. Not so much. But the truth.

    The truth. There is a book.
    There is a book and I—

    This year I will be better. I might not be kind
    but I will be honest. And I will be kind to myself.
    Because these spiderwebs are getting me down
    but they’re also holding me up. Because I loved you, didn’t I?

    Who are you? I don’t know.
    This is stupid.

  4. things i wish i’d known

    1. He has hands scarred with broken promises
    and he does not love you.
    He will never love you.

    2. He will never come back, either.
    Stop waiting.

    3. You deserve better.

    4. Fuck, you deserve better.

    5. When he reaches inside your ribcage
    shut him out. Bloody hands aren’t made to love.
    They’re made to break.

    6. When you’re standing at a crossroads
    and there’s a car barreling away from you, do not follow.
    Turn in the other direction.

    7. ‘Goodbye’ is a valid answer
    to ‘how are you?’

    8. What they don’t tell you
    is that your body is not a house
    other people can come and go from.
    When the world is ending you should be saving yourself.
    Not him.

    9. There will be times when it still hurts.
    But not as much as it did.

    10. Some people are fault lines.
    Don’t wait until everything falls down around you.
    Run before the ground swallows you whole.

    11. Stop waiting.

  5. Fear

    I saw her in the window
    that night
    when the world was asleep
    and you were not

           I saw her in the way he gripped my wrists
    until my skin turned red
    and in the way he smiled afterwards
    like this was a victory

                             I found her in the way I learnt to love myself
                             with my shirt off and my teeth bared
                             a stranger’s heart in my mouth

    I heard her that night when I cried myself to sleep
                                                       after hearing the news
    grieving somebody I didn’t remember how to know
    and another battle I forgot to fight

                     I felt her hands around my neck
                               when I asked him to stay
                               and he got lost on the way home

    I see her in my father’s anger
    in the way I flinch from loud noises
    in the promises my body made as a child
    and forgot to keep

                               I can taste her in stranger’s mouths
                               finding her body beneath the sheets and trying
                               to see if I remember how to map it out
                                       (the way she b r e a k s)

    I still see her in you
    the way you curl your body away from me like a branch
    that doesn’t know how to grow

                  I cannot remember how to let people in
                  there are bones in my wrists that only know how to break
                  I see her in every person I’ve ever loved
                  and the ones I haven’t

                          But today we are in your living room
    and we are alive and there is a fire in my heart
    that won’t stop burning

    I drink with shaking hands
    and we listen to the rain on the roof—
    See, neither of us thinks she’s gone for good
    but with you sometimes I pretend
    that she’ll get so lost in our happiness
    that she’ll forget to come back

    (She comes in the night and takes the fire
    In the morning we wake with empty hands
    and pretend we don’t feel the chill)

  6. disastrous

    there is a little girl in an empty house and she is dreaming 
    of the stars. she knows that there are many ways to say i love you 
    but what she doesn’t know is that you can’t remember
    a single one. maybe
    it wasn’t always like this, maybe there used to be
    a resolution to your disaster, maybe
    you should have done this a long time ago.
    he does not deserve your poems.
    you write them anyway.

    listen, this is no teenage angst, this is no
    blood on lips, torn shirted love affair. this isn’t about
    the way his hands curve on your spine
    like bird’s wings. you don’t believe in god anymore,
    never really tried, always found faith like a coat
    some people never shed because they’re too scared
    to leave themselves raw and vulnerable.

    (or maybe that’s just what you are. scared.
    scared of what happens when the lights go out.
    scared of the secrets that are a partofyoupartofyoupartof)

    and you know the truth is that you don’t want this,
    don’t want the pain and the pleasure, don’t want to find out
    how this ends; you want to know what it feels like
    to love somebody so much it makes you crazy, and have them
    go crazy right beside you. this is a fool’s game and you.
    you are the losing player.

    maybe you realised this when you stopped checking for monsters
    beneath your bed
    and started tearing back your skin to find the demons
    instead. or maybe it was when you woke up
    and your hands were already stretching out for somebody who wasn’t there, maybe that’s when
    you realised where this was going.

    one day you’ll write a step-by-step: “how to write a poem
    about somebody
    without writing it about them at all.”
    how to write a poem about somebody
    without admitting a single fucking thing
    at all. maybe this is how
    it’s supposed to go.


    the truth is, and always will be,
    in the hands of that little girl dreaming of catching stars
    and not knowing how much they burn once you do.
    the truth will always be kept in those unscarred hands, left
    beneath the tongue on that mouth empty of secrets.
    that this is how you begin, and this is how you end:

    an empty house and burned hands and old stagnant promises.
    a secret that (still, after all this time) doesn’t know
    how to be told.

  7. 09:15

    Notes: 11

    Reblogged from basicaquatics

    Tags: breathtakingspoken word

    Plays: 275


    i’ve had the honor and pleasure of working with one of my dear friends to feature some of my spoken word on his track, here’s one of the results! he’s an amazing musician and it was such a rad (albeit slightly nerve-wracking) experience working with him. 

    you can check out his bandcamp here.

    find my poem here featured on this track here.

  8. the silence between our sentences

    Here is the truth: there is a space in my heart and it is dedicated

    to the silence between our sentences.

    We were never meant to be like this.

    We were never meant to be so scared of ourselves

    that we learned sometimes the only way you can fight

    is not with your fists or your words but

    with your teeth (your nails down my back,

    your feet hooked round mine).

    I do not remember how to be with you

    and you can’t recall something you never learned.

    We start hiding our own bodies in caskets

    and teaching our hands how to fuck, not love; we learn

    how to be a person without ever being someone.

    I am not eloquent and you don’t know how to say a word

    and actually mean it; I want to make you angry so often

    that I’m never able to.

    If I still cared, I would pull back your skin

    and demand to know how your blood pumps

    while your heart is frozen as fucking ice.

    (If I still cared, I’d still be writing this poem.

    Maybe that says more than it doesn’t.)

    The truth is that I am sick of writing these poems.

    There is a door in a lonely house in another universe

    and it is dedicated to the silence between our sentences.

    Maybe in that world I’ve learnt not to let them

    eat me alive.

  9. anger

    the first time we met—at my uncle’s birthday party, young, stupid, terrified of ourselves— you found me among the mess of suits and briefcases, pressed your fingers to my wrist and said hey, there is somebody else here who is actually human. 

    (i loved you from the first moment i laid eyes on you.)

    and you took me on dates to the seaside and kissed me against the rocks tasting like wine and i craved; we laughed around “i love you”s and pressed kisses to bloody lips and you. you were beautiful.

    but then there were days (at first, they were few; later they became more and more) when the hours grated your nerves and you cut your teeth on my bones instead of sealing them back together. when you grew so tired and angry that you would scream until your face went red and your hands shook. and i was afraid of you at those times, but then i’d wake up the next morning to kisses and think oh. it was just a bad day.

    just a bad day.

    after a while bad days become personifications, and personifications become you, and the only thing keeping me hanging on was your fingers on my neck, your teeth meeting mine. just a bad day. you come home with your hands wrung and your eyes burning and just a bad day. your hands are fists and your lips are pulled back and we argue until our throats are sore. just a bad day.

    you throw a book in my direction and it’s just a bad day.

    you slap me, palm flat, eyes burning and it’s

    (over, it’s over, your hands reaching out to stop me from running, a door in your face; the long hours of endless missed phone calls and you, at my door, apologetic; the way the bruise fades but the ache never does; the letter you send months later, promising, promising, it was just)

    the first time we met—at my uncle’s birthday party, young, stupid, terrified of ourselves— you found me among the mess of suits and briefcases, pressed your fingers to my wrist and said hey, there is somebody else here who is actually human. and i smiled at you and thought about how i’d seen you earlier, yelling at somebody for accidentally catching a thread on your coat, about the way your hands shook and i think. i think just a bad day.

    (you loved me from the moment you laid hands on me.)

  10. we’re in the back of a car

    It goes like this: We’re in the back of a car.

    We’re in the back of a car and my hand is next to yours and we’re Not Touching. We’re so very much Not Touching that it’s burning, it’s awful, it’s the worst fucking thing in the world. I like to pretend, sometimes, that you want me back, when you’ve got my back against the seat and your thumbs on my hipbones, when we’re pretending we know how to act around each other.

    I do not remember how to do this.

    We’re in the back of a car and it might be yours, might be mine, or maybe it’s neither of ours, maybe we’re on the run. Maybe that’s how we’re meant to be, always running. We’re in the back of a car and there’s this smile on your face, this fucking smile, and it’s the most devastating thing in the world, and I want to run. So maybe we run.

    Maybe we run.

    A friend once told me about this boy she’s in love with, about how he makes her heart pound even when he’s making her furious, how when they kiss he curves his body towards her like ducking a gunshot. She says, “And I love him anyway. It’s the dumbest thing,” and I ask her, “Why? Why would you do that to yourself?”

    She bites her lip until it bleeds, worries her fingernail. “Some people are like drugs,” she says. “Some people - it’s so stupid, some people are the worst for you but they make you happy and that’s why you go back for more. They’ll ruin you if you let them.”

    "So you don’t let him? Ruin you, I mean."

    "No, no, I let him. Of course I fucking let him."

    We’re in the back of a car and in my head all I can think is some people are like drugs.

    You kiss me but we’re still Not Touching, our hands like repellent magnets but we’re kissing, and it’s so stupid. It’s the stupidest thing. Some people are like drugs, I think, and it’s so stupid, and I let you. Of course I fucking let you.