The older i get the more i appreciate well worn books. Let me see the tattered edges and broken spines, show me that the story has followed you around in grimy backpacks
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And just like infinity, we can't get to the ending, happy or sad. We can't skip to the - how does this end? We've gotta start at the beginning, working our way through everything, walking up to the next room everytime something shifted. And maybe, maybe if we're lucky our love will be eternal. Throughout the parallel universes, throughout our mortal lifetimes. A flip of a coin, fingers brushed together by an accidental paint stroke, a step to the next room.
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i feel stupid with age– my tongue has become a numb, angry thing that can only swear with the rage of a teenaged girl (fuck you, you motherfucker, you're the lousiest bitch in this joint, he's an asshole and a fucking idiot, what the fuck, amirite?!) and my fingers type with the same ease and expertise of a newborn. i'm getting older and i'm getting dumber, i'm so sure of it, my brain was everything when i was seventeen and i could set the world on fire if i even had the inkling.
i believed in myself when i was young in a way that i can't fathom at this old-bones age, this spry young thing wrapped up in a spinster's bones, clawing red and bloodied at the flesh that is pockmarked with mosquito bites and acne scars that won't give the hell up. and my mom has always told me that swearing makes me seem less intellectual so i leave it out of my writing but honest to God, i've never felt as brilliant as when i was using words like dipshit and bitch-ass and goddamn and balancing precariously on them, like a newborn baby deer, still trying to figure out how the world really felt about me.
now i'm clumsy and wise. my heart has been broken and i've been to the hairdresser all on my own and i pay a rent that's too high for a city that hates me a little too much. i have an EBT card. i think about becoming an influencer, because that's probably a hell of a lot easier than getting a graduate degree. i don't write anymore, i have a google doc full of first sentences to stories i'll never hear the end of (my play about Goneril, the scorned eldest daughter of King Lear. fanfiction for a litany of tv shows i enjoy. a sad stringing together of flash fiction i write about my own life when my tears can only compress themselves into a mess of the english language.) and i begin drafts of tumblr rantings that i can never screw the cap all the way on.
i wrote something about six months ago that gets pretty regular traction, and the novelty has worn off. people call me soft and bitchy in the comments for writing about something that still sends dull aches through me when i give it the time of day. i'm getting dumber as i get older, sacrificing all of the energy i gripped like hot, wet heat, for the definitive understanding of a world who doesn't want to give anything in return.
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Sometimes i wake up in the morning
And i feel so happy
Then the last bit of awarentess tickles in
And i feel such profound
Disappointment
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I just googled how to make banana bread after seeing a post on banana bread on instagram. I was supposed to google how to make flashcards. My brain is so fucking dumb with the attention span of a humming bird. I'm like both dumb and dumber at this point. Someone unalive me please.
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Castle
How does one become as haunted
as this – so empty,
abandoned, and lost
to time?
If bones speak,
yours scream,
shrieking tirelessly
in the night
to wake me from my sleep.
Your emptiness hums
apologetically for its need
to exist and be heard.
It draws storms to your spires
in deep grays so that the light
scarcely grazes your surfaces.
If the light seeps in,
you fear your beauty
turns to rot,
and it might.
The drafts blow through
your soul – broken
stained-glass windows
– causing flickering candles
and howling halls,
but you are devoid from all life
except me.
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Thought this bookshelf looked particularly nice today
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You drive home after a long cold day of dealing with University Bullshit. It’s winter, so you reach into your backpack only to realise the balled up gloves you packed in the morning are… not the ones you normally pack for work.
Oh well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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