It’s starting.

It is true that I am tied to you.

but bound by bone, I am not.

You have not pierced through my marrow

Nor crept up my blood stream

You have yet to purge into my lungs

I do not inhale you.

There is no you, residing in me

It is true that you’ve got me tethered

to you

But into my bones, you have not seeped

Steadfast and true

I will rid myself of you  

Some days I talk so much my head feels like it’s going to explode because my jaw’s been working overtime and my brain needs a second to breathe. I kept saying that I miss having intelligent conversations that shake my floorboards, but I spend too many days in the quiet of my room and my ears can’t recall how to hear without bleeding or pumping red-hot, heartbeats at the side of my head. And today I realized that I am too afraid to start some things because I don’t want to fail, but I’m learning that I need to just reach my arms out regardless of what might slap the backs of my hands.

(mis)directions

I keep thinking about the routine. About the constant ruts of nothingness that we find ourselves stuck in only because we don’t get out. I don’t want to live here, on repeat. I want to chase my arrogant limbs until they’re too tired to keep on. I want to run across streams of sanity and into shiny white pavements. I want dust and gravel and grimy film stuck under my nails and an acrid taste left in my gums from all the movement, all the blur. I want to be caught in between a perpetual state of calamity and control. I want small vessels of sincerity that overflow onto me. I want tiny stories and I want heartache. I want breathlessness and constant fear. I want to come completely undone.

If you’re still a bit broken, we can mend and we can manage.

If you let me, I can lead the way and we can tiptoe through this

We can sit in subtly.

If your bags are heavy, I’d like to help you unpack.

I don’t mind being hunched over with their weight, as long as I still get to linger around you, gently.

We can lean and laugh into each other, catching uneven breaths of fear and shaking them away.

We can bounce back and forward between fragments and fright

But if I can keep you in between the two, will you stay and rest awhile?

i’ll make it easy, you’ll see

I’ll tell you about all the flecks in your eyes and how they feel like a thousand tiny needles floating seamlessly into me. or about the rosy dents that make up your ears. There are so many colors and textures and touches. I can tell you about them, if you let me. The pieces are fitting, the edges are blurring into each other. There is no sharp shooting pain of nostalgia or past love. There’s just the colors of your face. And all the different textures and touches. 

julieee.’s photostream on Flickr.

there is no time to dwell.

Hello, I love your soul. The one that folds into tiny pieces and rearranges itself to be whatever everyone else wants you to be. The same soul that stirs in uneven breaths of warm, sticky air. You, you are not your failures or even your triumphs. You are a culmination of every beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, ever thought, ever wanted. You are a soul, and I love you

i.cant’.write.

nor take anything resembling a good picture. meow!

Sometimes I forget how much beauty there is in honesty above pride. In being selfless and scribbling post its for your best friend to find. In anything handwritten and in proper punctuation. I forget about the sunrise and the stars and the morning dew hitting my eyelashes. In waking up with conviction and loving with every fiber of every insignificant part of myself. Sometimes, I forget.  

The summer was a tangled white sheet that I layed in for far too long. It was a still nude shade of pictures that I carried with me day to day, starring at each of them for too long before drifting off to sleep. It wrapped me up in a breeze and carried me into a fog. This autumn will be different. It’ll be crisp and I’ll be clear. The way all autumns are, I’ll find myself in one of the tree branches that lands on my window. It’ll be dripping with the sincerity of the changing seasons and I’ll be aching to feel its cold roughness on my dry summer skin. 

there are nights I don’t sleep. I go comatose. But not in the light sense that everyone else does. I just stop being there. Being here, anywhere that’s real. I don’t exist and its beautiful. I’m petrified of living and leaving and wanting and experiencing any kind of pain. I like to revel in the routine ive created. It’s a heavy coat painted on my body but its crusting and I;m going to start peeling it off soon. There are several layers. I’d like to start getting rid of them soon. Maybe you can help me with this?