John Green; Paper Towns

HANDS.

Why did we collectively agree

that love is stored in our hearts?

Why did no one stand up to argue

that love is within the other person's hands?

Trust me not?

Palm on your forehead late at night,

Checking your temperature.

A reassuring hand on your knee

When you're shaking with anxiety.

A grip around your wrists

While crossing the road.

Calloused fingers suddenly soft

While brushing tears off your cheeks.

Protective arm around your shoulders

when all you want is to lean.

Brush of fingers while passing a dish

Over the dinner table.

I'll cease to exist

When my heart stops beating

But I'll give you that letter with scrawly writings

Only when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.

“a toxic label

broken chords

a gentle note

Silence roars

What I Am is

what I know

As above

so below...” - m.sonder

//transgressions//

My Body: A Crime Scene

I was told the body is a temple. I was taught to treat my body like a temple. Sacred, Holy, somewhere God resides, somewhere a person can be at peace. But with time, the sacrality has begun to fade. It has become a realm of my internal demons, something sinister.

My body is now more of a crime scene than a temple.

I've put up barricade tapes around me. Of bright "when life gives you lemon" yellow and black. A cautionary measure for the lighthearted.

Some understand and stay away.

Others push right through like the case now belongs to them.

They say they've seen this before.

They say no amount of gore can keep them away.

They say they'll take care of it.

Only to realize it's bloodier than they could've imagined.

Multiple fingerprints, Multiple footprints: An evidence marker placed for every person I let walk all over me, and for every person, I gave my heart only for them to poke my wounds.

Blood: Numerous splatters, but all mine.

Weapons: Some sticks and stones, knives that I willingly handed over hoping they'd protect me, now covered in my blood and, a pen.

Many witnesses: Either dumb or hostile.

Signs of arson: Ashes of everything I burnt down. Pictures, letters, broken promises, false hopes, unfulfilled dreams.

And now, all that's left of me is a chalk outline. Everything else faded, picked apart or withered away.

My body is not a temple anymore. It isn't sacred or pure.

It's not a place I can stand barefoot.

It's now a place where I need a hazmat suit and gloves.

REFORMATION

Holding on tightly to mamma's finger,

Our first fear was getting lost in the crowd

Then we grew up,

Held many other hands and let go of some

Slowly we saw our fear change

From getting lost to feeling lost amidst a crowd.

As a kid, we woke up in the middle of the night,

And then didn't go back to sleep

Thinking there might be demons under our bed

But as an adult,

it's harder to get any sleep

Because demons moved from under our beds to inside our heads.

(18.11.20)

Writing period dramas in the discord, lads

Shit Slytherins Say: #254

Ok no offense, but some of us *looks pointedly at self in mirror* need to fucking chill

The Beatrice Letters by Lemony Snicket

I read between the lines when I can't write.!!😶

Cardan's Letters to Jude

—burned by Lady Asha

KINTSUGI

I learned kintsugi so I could fix my favorite broken mug.⁣

The art that meant golden joinery,⁣

Golden repair.⁣

But I never thought about what it meant.⁣

Why would I? I fixed my mug.⁣

⁣

Until I broke,⁣

Until I saw cracks within people that I love.⁣

That was the moment I realized⁣

Kintsugi isn't just for fixing ceramics⁣

It is not to say what didn't kill you made you stronger.⁣

It is to show what didn't kill you is now a part of your story.⁣

A significant piece of who you are.⁣

For better or worse,⁣

whether it made you stronger, weaker, or traumatized,⁣

It's. Still. You. ⁣

⁣

So we pick up the broken pieces of ourselves and the ones we love⁣

And we put it back together with golden glue,⁣

As best as we can.⁣

We assure our loved ones not to conceal their scars⁣

We promise them the glued parts aren't ugly.⁣

That the cracks are now like a golden vein,⁣

a vein through which ichor flows.⁣

The same ichor that Gods bled is now,⁣

Keeping us immortal for a while.⁣