old, old writing

her eyes are tired

her heads filled with static but she can't hear any music, nothing but repeats of the same routine where he's begging for her hand but she's dragging her feet behind


fire sparks her eyes and she doesn't want this, not yet not yet!
and he cries what is wrong with you? why don't you love me?
but she does, she does
and he stops as she starts and brushes those tears away, promising everything
stardust, he would give her and his life he would sacrifice
and he wants more than sweet nothings and watching television all after-noon and mornings by her side and 
every single word she has meant
he wants the rest of her life and they're so young but it doesn't matter, he believes they will never part and she is taking steps back
her throat tightening and he's shouting
just abandon all sense!
he's standing atop a window sill staring down at his end but cannot leave and she cannot handle this 
and he promises everything while she hates promises

desperation

limbs 
clinging as if they would die left stranded
hands were made for grasping, painted lips utter the words but words are empty
wrapping legs, arms 
round and round
temporary promise that they'll never let go
gasping as if there was no more air
as if skin was the source of breathing and
touching meant staying alive

i miss my childhood summers

i'm stuck here, wanting the days when i woke up to the fresh, hot air that breathed on my white walls, the sunlight peeking through my curtains. i always sleep on my side, always facing the window, so the first thing i laid eyes on in the morning was my dollhouse. pink, and light blue.

my days consisted of running around outside until sunset, mixing chalk with water and painting the pavement with pastels and names and by the end of the day, the sky had a twin with the words "Hannah" etched into the pink clouds.

there was no such thing as heartbreak. boys stayed best friends and love did not hurt. my best friend was a boy. we made adventures with old blankets, tying two corners around our shoulders and pretending we could fly, only to fall and scrape grass stains into our blue jeans. but we didn't care, got up, and did it again. only when our jeans had no knees did we stop, and go home where our mothers would 'click-click-click' their tongues and complain about how expensive jeans are and that soon our knees would have no skin.

we thought we would live forever, and that sixteen meant you were elderly, and life wasn't hard.

i miss the days where i did not care. my hair was a tousled mess, my clothes were just comfortable, my knees were scraped all the time, and i did not understand the concept of pretty shoes because they would just be stepped on all the time anyway and how could i kick a soccer ball with high heels?

i miss the days where i wasn't broken.

no title

it's the kind of pain where your holding broken glass together with only your bare hands and crunching it in, pressing it together
hoping if you let go, your blood will be enough to hold it together and it will become the beauty it once was

no title

the sobs are breaking my bones and crushing my lungs
black running down my face marking where my tears once ran
my arms are too small to hold myself together
and although it feels like you're gone, i know you'll be back
and my heart will bruise once more
twice more
thrice more
unsure, my fingers grasping and letting go, letting go and grasping
i can't do this, i tell myself
but i can, it will just kill me as i'm trying
all for the sake of foolish hope that my care for you will be returned
one day


x


the majority of these are about a person that took up two years of my life. it is needless to say that he didn't treat me very well and that i was foolish for staying that long. but i am free and all that's left of him are these pieces of writing that i wrote with tears streaming down my face.


i do not cry any more and i am happy that the horrible, dark chapter of my life is finally over.