tenth-of-july

[tenth-of-july]

a requiem

as happy as I am for the others, I do not wish to sit in the back tables of banquets, celebrating over someone's shared love. I swallow dandelion greens and turmeric to ease the bitter pain, but I still somehow end up in a coffin, in a mass I never want.

everyone could be standing at my wake and they would see my face, pink and pale from the lipstick and uneven contours. They don't notice that a finger is missing on my left hand where a ring is supposed to be linked to the veins near my heart. They only see the face of a woman who has smiled, laughed, cried, and yelled in front of them; but they never see the finger that has waited for a ring or any symbolic object to reassure her that romance is not as dead and cold as her.

they pray for my departure but I refuse to go; for what is the purpose of a requiem, what is the purpose of my dead body, my hands, my fingers, if there is nothing to hold?

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #taylor swift

[tenth-of-july]

my integumentary system is familiar of even the thought of you that bounce around the voices of people I barely know; they tickle through the cracks of my goosebumps as the words continue to sort themselves into sentences until it eventually forms a coherent conception of who we were, what happened in between, and what we could have been. they continue to feel familiar deep through the layers of my skin, below my subcutaneous, inside my marrows, and around my tendons.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose poem #prose #prose poetry #spilled ink

[tenth-of-july]

trucks

I dream of a truck.

I dream of its two bright lights, like lingering eyes hungry for something to seep.

I dream of its massive entirety, ready to collide with a body as small as mine.

I dream of many trucks all at once, my key from deprivation.

When I dream of trucks, I dream of a sense of belonging to nothing. I dream of no inhibition, of no commitment.

I dream of my particles scattering across the air; my blood, sweat, tears, and dreams; all out in the open for everyone to see.

I would love for everyone to see, a smooth finale of my dream.

To dream of trucks and being in the air, is a dream I wish myself to sleep.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #rant post #vent post

[tenth-of-july]

Solace

solace is a person who I have not felt for two hundred and forty-six days. Solace taps my knee to hand me my drink, sprays me vanilla perfume, gives me the last of his spiked ice tea, pats my forehead with a handkerchief, hugs me in the middle of a concert, lets me sleep on his shoulder, travel miles to pick me up inebriated, explains the scientific difference of drinking with and without the fan facing you, discusses the color psychology of restaurants, and leaves first. Solace revolves for a month and ten days and I would call it a decade.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink

[tenth-of-july]

day 246

you can say whatever you want to say — however you want it to sound, but you will never make me forget how he would say or sound something like that. How do you even explain to someone when you are tearing up because someone jokingly called you the endearment of "baby"? He has never called me that, but receiving it sounds scandalous, as if I've betrayed him by wanting to forget him so I talk to other people but they only look distorted and wrong after they praise or worship me.

I am all you ever want, he was all I ever wanted. I end up with loose fragments of him mainlined in the stems of my brain to perceive you as a substitute of him. And I'm mad that you're not a carbon copy, that no one is a decent replacement; mad that there is only him that makes me write like this, the enormous intake of dopamine.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink

[tenth-of-july]

day 221

"There was a girl who was good with words," maybe there is a timeline that you would end up aching as you read this; if you ever saw the mountains of excerpts from holes I dug beneath the earth's soil with my bare hands, fingers bleeding for the familiar warmth I've lost for what seemed like decades, because of you. In my point of view, it has been seventy years.

Every once in a while, the sentimentality comes back and I embrace it with open arms because who was I if not known for self-destructive behaviors and the continuous longing for miseries? Maybe there was a truth to your opening line, I am good with words; but when I was with you, no words would come out and only did it spill when you so terribly forced it out of me by leaving. I have embraced the unknown just like you said and was only caught off-guard on the ninth day, failing the system that circulates throughout my body. And yes, there were so many stories, but ours tore me apart the most.

I'm still good with words, am I not? (My writing has gotten better, I have not)

—————————————————————

This needs a bit of context to be understood fully so here it is. These are the lines from the poem he made for me that I decided to use as a parallel to this work:

"There was a girl who was good with words"

"Embrace the unknown, but guard your heart"

"Cause plenty of these stories will tear you apart"

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original art #original post #oh my god

[tenth-of-july]

sometimes I feel like romance is an obscure piece of a three-dimensional shape that I find difficulty fitting into any part of my hollow framework. Everything I do in relation to it is always somewhat insufficient or too much. It's deemed as odd or desperate if I unlock my phone to actively seek for someone to fill my void, that it's a waste of time if I continue to wait for someone to naturally sweep me off my feet on roads I barely cross or in libraries I pass to bookmark lines of poetry I find endearing; how there's no point in pursuing your interest in a person if they don't check each box, or when you're left with a lie that they will come back from someone you actually want to risk your ego and pride.

romance should not be difficult, I perceived that one myself. I see it in every corner and crevice in places I've been and have never been to. In parties, in streets, in institutions, in histories, in books that are labelled as "non-fiction", in the arms of my friends, and in every piece of media that my eyes have laid upon. Their romances were perfectly shaped for them, and I have tried to carve mine with my own two hands in every way I could ever imagine so why has it not plunged deep inside me yet?

maybe romance is as simple as they say. That it is merely existing in the shape of a sculptured heart. And what's left is my body; maybe chiseled wrongly, proportioned with the wrong measurements, and cut too deep for a shallow and uncomplicated chunk of affection. So maybe it is not romance that is shaped indistinctly, but it is I who am hollowed out unearthly.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #love poem #letters i'll never send #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original post #original poem #oddcore #love #love quotes #lovers

[tenth-of-july]

decay

ants crawl over my skin in bed, bruised and purple. They hold a portion of my flesh and inject their poison. But that is not the cause of my decay, not the soil shoved in my mouth nor the maggots planted in my ear. It is the removal of my organs and the beating of my heart. My hands were caught red-handed, the ones at the scene of the crime. My fingers sunk their nails deep to my core, grasped its structure, and ripped it all out disfigured and bloody. Now I am left with concaves and mushrooms sprouting from the empty spaces where my eyeballs used to roll.

I was dead sixty minutes ago, a living and breathing carcass. Bit by bit, my body pulled me onto the mattress and now I lay there unmoving and rotten, wondering if I had made the right choice to willingly give it all up and succumb myself to the tragedy of life and the birth of a biosphere.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original post #original art #aesthetic

[tenth-of-july]

Wouldn't it be humorous if I, who have practiced the art of writing so many reveries of romance and the tender warmth of love in all of its epitome, is doomed to be on one's own? Or would it be a pitying, far too cruel of a fate? The crevice in between my fingers that have been writing for so long ache on its separation, but maybe the loneliness will deter if I just stitch them all together with the consequence of never recording anything again.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #original poem #original post #original art #spilled ink

[tenth-of-july]

Freezing

To hear that burning for someone is romantic and platitudinous. I hear it all the time. It rings in my ears and I am reminded that burning for someone should be passionate—blazing. But I would rather freeze my skin and the tips of my fingers. A stiff body frozen in ice, the heart intact and sculpted from the chest with eyes as hailstones. It is as calamitous but cathartic, an avalanche. It would stir me to perpetual wintertide; the rest of my organs willing to be conserved, stored in underground burrows where moles and voles hide their cache. And I would let icicles penetrate my vasculars and the low temperature of 0 degrees celsius to extravasate throughout my framework, grateful for the thought that it was you who caused it.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original post #original art #writers of tumblr #metaphor

[tenth-of-july]

smitten, foolish, whore, lost, and conflicted

I think what is most devastating to every neocortex of my brain that it could ever handle is to never having the words to write about the stupidity I've built upon myself at this moment. I could write that I was smitten and foolish, but that could never encapsulate the amount of bits and pieces that churned in my stomach during a normal afternoon after making the effort to vigorously manage my time and interest over a love affair I may or may not have wanted. No one could ever prepare me for the devastation it would bring in the aftermath of its mishaps—who could even? When I am already highly regarded for my intellect, dissecting people based on their speech patterns and concerning epithets?

Perhaps, I could also write that I am a whore, since that is what I usually think of people who are unsatisfied of themselves so they rack the market with desperation to be tenderly held or to be brutally fucked. I am aware that they both have different intentions clumped into one word and just by my understanding of a tumultuous mix of letters, I am smart enough to acknowledge that no one has ever thought that my ways of thinking were acceptable to societal norms. They ignore the flaws that I have been gnawing on ever since the start of January and I should praise the Lord for such people because I would have slapped myself in the face if it were physically possible to meet her. She is a whore, but it will never sum up the amount of times I have noticed the cracks in my skin and the following burst of a dam reeking of patheticness that whispers through the mirror as I convince myself that everyone wants me.

Or maybe I am just lost and conflicted. Would that suffice for the feeling of always wandering anywhere with anyone to grasp the concept of affection but would rather look at the potted plants across the table where we're sitting at or pick apart the things they've done that someone would never do to me? Where the hell do I place my assortment of personalities and all-over-the-place literatures? How should I live with the fact that I have had a look of yearning for six months now and in an effort to incinerate this ghastly expression, I consume bitter flowers and meaningless "How are you"s?

Stupid, stupider, stupidest. Give me a round of applause from the easily-earned title for "smitten, foolish, whore, lost, and conflicted" as I continue to navigate the absurdity of my decisions just for that sweet sweet boost of dopamine.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original post #original art #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #writerscommunity #vent post #vent #rant post #personal rant #ranting #venting

[tenth-of-july]

Is it so pathetic for a human being to want to hear a sincere declaration of love from another? God made me with five separate fingers, each drawing a radius for another being to enclose. And yet, when all they want is my skin, I am to believe, revoltingly, that love needs skinship to function. Only do they want my flesh, but not to whisper in my bones and soothe my soul back six feet under. I do not long for anyone's touch, for I want them to linger more in pledges and whispers. What is the sole purpose of the mouth if not to kiss and praise how one is made?

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original art #original poem #original post

[tenth-of-july]

Day 201

To miss someone is to heavily yearn for their presence. To bring up how much you fucking miss someone is outrageous. Pathetic. Burning, it scorches on your back with traces that look like perfectly grilled cheese in the outdoors during a summer afternoon. To "miss" is such a gentle word, but to apply this to someone who probably barely fits my image in their mental capacity is astronomically despondent.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original post #original art

[tenth-of-july]

I can never cleanse something so demented and filthy on my own — it's stitched in between my veins and accumulated on its own for more than a hundred days as a sin so profane that it continues to haunt my virtues in prayers and whispered sighs. It would take more than one to bathe away something so blasphemous, the suds will not be the one to purify but the flesh that will linger and pierce through my tissues as I come undone and together again.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink

[tenth-of-july]

"If you could hold the sun"

my darling, if you could hold the sun, it would wrap you in a warm embrace and a tender stare. Its rays would touch your skin and bless you with its own celestial grace. The chromosphere would want to give up its hue as your cries give the sign of life, when the earth adapts to the touch of your feet, when your voice gathers a generation for an influence to a symphony; or when the corners of your lips blind the mortals with your smile, setting the world ablaze.

my love, my child, if you could hold the sun, you will be brighter. Listen to its heartbeat and you will soon hear the belligerent swirls of gas and dust, all for passion that drove itself to a solar nebula. I am made out of fifteen million celsius and you are even more.

#literature #poem #poetry #letters #letters i'll never send #love poem #prose #prose poem #prose poetry #spilled ink #original poem #original post

[tenth-of-july]

day 188

I can never get rid of you, can I? No matter how many times I soap my hands or bathe my body or spray perfume or brush my teeth or cut my nails or get manicure or rub my eyes or wipe my glasses or clean my ears and nose or skip my meals or drink my water or lose my weight or gain my weight or learn something new or practice dancing or sing in karaokes or cry myself to sleep or meet new people or go on new dates, I just can't seem to stop writing about you.

You linger in every word and in every poetic device so much that I have started wishing you were dead so that at least you could have a basis for frequenting in my proximity a lot.

#poetry #literature #love poem #nostalgia #poem #prose poetry #prose poem #prose #spilled ink #spilled poetry #words words words #Letters I'll never send

[tenth-of-july]

day 168

"Merry Christmas! Hope you're doing well now" says he.

How do you mercilessly choose an occasion to ask me how I've been? Christ's Mass and the nailing of Jesus was not told for people like you to come back to one's life after four months of desperate prayers to make the sick feeling and churning of my stomach with just the thought of you to go away. I hate you with every fiber of my being but oh, God; oh, God, every fiber of my being used to long for your touch. They longed for you to come back and I wanted to wait for your fingertips to find my wrist again and lead me across a crowd while my favorite songs blasted behind the mall on a normal 7 pm evening. Your audacious remains lie in the very bottom layer of my skin and I might die to even try and scrape you off of me.

The very soul that inhabits my flesh and skeleton is aching to vomit you out, but alcohol and residues of my bolus were the only present beings as I hug the neck of the toilet bowl in between my sobs and gasps with thoughts of regret that included your voice and name never leaving my body. I am devastatingly revolted by my hippocampus for forcefully keeping shards of you in who I am and how I turned out to be when you left me walking home all alone slightly inebriated, or when you pointed out the psychology of colors in restaurants and the impact of your clavicle for when I need a rest. I never wanted you to be a part of me, but oh my, oh my; my insensible destruction to let you in was irreversible and I will forever live with the fact that I once willingly let you do so.

#poetry #literature #love poem #nostalgia #poem #prose poem #spilled poetry #spilled ink #words words words #prose poetry #Letters I'll never send