🍃🌺🌙If You Receive This You Make Somebody Happy. Go And Send This To Ten Of Your Followers Who

I used to curl up close to my bedroom wall,

hide under my blanket and hug my knees to my chest

Hoping, if there was a demon under my bed

it couldn't reach me.

Now I sleep on the other end

And when the night is darkest

I reach out under my bed

Hoping the demon under my bed

would hold me.

Tell me tales until I fall asleep, I say.

When it responds

I notice our voice sounds similar.

Hoarse and scratchy from the lack of use.

Hands cold and rough like it's filled with papercuts.

There are other demons, you know? Inside my head, I say.

They're not as kind as you.

They keep me up at night and keep me spiraling in the morning.

How do I get rid of them?

It considers, and as my consciousness starts to slip, it answers

Be kind to yourself as you're to me.

Malyen Oretsev in Ruin and Rising (Leigh Bardugo)

one time in high school my french teacher told the class that his grandmother died and a kid in the class said “je regrette :(“ and the french teacher burst out laughing and was like “you’re gonna wanna say desolé in this context because je regrette means like…. my bad”

A weak week!

I buried my head in a pillow to bawl

Knees to my chest like a ball

I guess it was the Domino effect

Of being vulnerable, easy to affect

Sometimes my heart twists and wrings

Most often my head hurts and rings

I assure you it's not just a phase

I've tried but the feeling doesn't faze.

No one really saw the signs

Even if it's simple science

At last I cried out aloud

Louder than I was allowed.

(there's something so comforting about homophones. <3)

🪄 ✨

AFTER A RAINY NIGHT

The mornings after a rainy night,

Reminds me of all our crazy fights.

The way few droplets hold onto leaves,

I held us tying my pain in sheaves.

The sky looks empty without a cloud,

Reflecting me and the things you vowed.

And slowly the day gets bright in time,

I bethink how I left right in time.

The mornings after a rainy night,

Reminds me there's always space for light.

(26.10.20)

Happy Ides of March !!!!

writing prompts! all about night edition

hands are cold but feet unmoving, watching magic in the night

I didn’t mean to say it in my head and I didn’t mean to whisper it at night

it’s nearly night, frost creeping in on silent feet

it’s the song of night that draws me in

at night, when I’m alone, I look up and I can see the stars

a lantern far away glimmers and I can run away into the night

take me to a place in the middle of the night when the stars shine brighter as the sky turns slowly lighter

in the coolness of the night, send the shadows into flight

But as I’m walking forward, I’m walking into the night

in the heartland, where the night creeps in solemnly

you bought tomorrow and banished the night

if I ever think about you at night, if I whisper your name so soft

make a little more color in a lightened up night

and the night was upon us as the dark came creeping in, do you remember?

sometimes I dread the night, and feel so bitter

if the night can hold my hand and if the shadows are my friends I guess I’m alright

I can’t see the moon against the brightness of night

waiting for the light to untie night’s strings and the sky to come undone

the night was ebbing in and out like the sea

I am the power, I am the night

the past that haunts and fears that slide around in the back of my brain at night

like the closing of a story, the night rolls across the page

which is more lovely, the night or the day?

late night hurting, fever’s chill, I want a word, I need a will

let me stich your constellations onto the quilt of my night sky

Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is the hole. When I desire you, a part of me is gone: my want of you partakes of me. So reasons the lover at the edge of eros. The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions of personal identity: he must recover and reincorporate what is gone if he is to be a complete person. […] Most people find something disturbingly lucid and true in Aristophanes’ image of lovers as people cut in half. All desire is for a part of oneself gone missing, or so it feels to the person in love.

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay.