The Voice. 

 there is a quiver, a voice, a scratch on the back of my throat at all times

 that spins magical magnificent memories in the form of words i cannot live without. 

i call these wonderfully wierd impulses as my poetry. 

but be warned : we poets learn how to twist metaphors and pin imagery.

we make make diamond words out of coal memories.

we know how to bend and shake up words until they shiver and are nothing but dust. 

we paint gods out of human palettes.

and i will probably make one out of you too. 

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connected dots.

halfway across this city is someone who thought about you this afternoon. somewhere across your state someone heard about you from an acquaintance and wondered about how you would be. someone right now is reading your words and falling in love with them unknowingly. halfway across this world is someone who sat next to you on a flight long ago and is going to be your friend two months later. we’re all connected.

isn’t that comforting? 

paper-cuts on glass hearts.

we fell like glass heart timers. tick-tock. tick-tock. tick-tock.

vanishing every second in a fog of affection. a mirage of love, a sea of purity. we fell without learning to climb and maybe we felt it was enough.

and maybe it was. 

we fell like paper cranes into rivers of desperation. drown me. drown me. drown me right this instant, i beg you. 

but still still learnt to fly now, didn’t we? out, out and away on little fluttering heart wings.

// fantasies of love //

you know those moments? the fraction of a second when your teacher slips in a word of praise that goes absolutely unnoticed by everyone but sends soft firecrackers off in your chest, a compliment in the middle of a totally different conversation, that one second when you ignore the little look of worry in your friend’s eyes when you stand too close to the road, the little moments of euphoria, the tiny soothing happiness ticking your chest and giving you goosebumps, you know that feeling?

now imagine feeling that ALL the time.

“You’re just a teenager, what do you know?”

this is us. the kids with the pixel hearts, the queens with the broken hearts. this is us, bleeding love and glory. we survived. this is us with the gazillion views on oppression and prognostications. this is us – the ones with the bruised knees and patched minds, building sandcastles with the muck you threw at us. this is us with the scraped knees – do you remember pushing us down?

this is us –  grime filled nails and latte lips and rusty hair. this is us, and we made it this far. this is us. we wear headbands of wilted flowers and we scream with our face full of blood. we hope with bandaged skin and tousled hair. we sing with our mouths closed – do you remember taping our mouth?

so this is us – reincarnations of helen and cleopatra and venus. this is us with labels stuck to us with permanent glue. this is us – dying to please a generation you raised.

And voilá.

i. the sky feels red and you do too. there is something about the hurt that springs up to you in the corners of your mind, and it tells you this, “my love, do not turn back. do not let them see. do not let them seep inside of you. do not let them strum your heart strings.”

ii. you travel to places you go everyday. the usual, as usual. but your phone stinks of unforgiven apologies and a million messages, and you still let it rot. the usual, as usual.

iii. people see you as someone you never were. you hear them out and you think oh god what have i become? who are you even?

iv. you wake up at 03 : 45 and you giggle at yourself because the dream you just had was just a nightmare and real life is just so much better. you thank your stars.

v. you survive.