Selfish
Selfish
For every set of hands joined together, i lose a thread in the sweater of my soul
I wish it was me.
I don't want to wait.
Though it seems selfish
I just want to be seen.
To be held.
To be loved.
Selfish.
She held you didn’t she?
Why can’t I?
I know why.
I have let myself go.
Every breath puts me farther away.
I want what everyone else seems to have.
Is that so selfish?
To want what is guaranteed for so many?
I think so.
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her loud ass is always screaming 🙄🙄
Anastasia Trusova, “And the sunset came” Acrylic on canvas / 60 x 80 cm / 2022
The Conflict of Guinevere
I saw her sitting on the shoreline by the sea collecting small shards of light that sparkled in infinity, tiny twinkles that flickered in my eyes, and set the sweet night sky a light.
Her gown looked like a thin veil of fog with little fireflies floating about shrinking and growing while glowing then blinking out. Her hair was adorned with a fresh multi-colored crown of flowers intertwined with thin shifting vines that seem to be alive.
A cousin to the creatures a buzzing, childlike being with transparent wing fluttering, while thin limbs orchestrated the music mother nature layered, sounds of clicking critters, and rhythmic raindrops, with winds whooshing through the leaves and I could just barely see the silhouette of other fair folk and their family moving in unity, obscured by the beauty of mother nature’s natural graces.
Twas a night of strange delights, and I was drunk with awe from what I saw, until with a panicked thrill I witnessed the night succumbing to the burning sun’s unrelenting hunger as it devoured the eve’s softness and replaced it with heated harshness.
All that was mythic and mystical left and in its stead the mundane came to claim my befuddled mortal brain.
-2023
Sorry
Sorry.
I don’t mean to bother you.
I really don't.
I don’t mean to take up this much space.
I’m trying to be better.
I swear.
Sorry.
You say I apologize too much.
I wish I could apologize for that.
I just have become so close with guilt.
He sits on my shoulder every afternoon when I get home.
He whispers in my ear.
“You should be sorry”
He’s right, you know.
Because Guilt sometimes lets me call him by another name.
A nickname if you will.
(we are that close)
He tells me to call him Truth.
He’s right here if you want me to talk to him.
Sorry.
At the moment
Dried mascara stains
Little marks on my legs, arms, and shoulders.
Numbers on the scale.
Numbers on my plate.
Tears in my eyes
Lists
So many lists
Things to do
Things to write
Words to say
Words that will never be spoken
People to talk to.
People to avoid.
Breathe in
Breathe out
Hold it in.
Suck it in.
Suck it up.
Walking on eggshells
It’s all so dirty.
Clothes on the floor.
Papers on my wall.
God can’t be found here.
Scrubbing my skin until I am raw all over
Ice cold showers.
Grades are dropping.
They are all leaving.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t do it.
Is this who I have become?
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boxoflives reblogged this · 3 years ago
