beach ☆

I do not know why i am doing

No good

I guess this is

The blooming of some, not me

I guess this is not the place for me, 

feeling like a washed up tree, and that is okay okay

Though it numbs at the corners of my skin

I do not get why you get such a good feeling from gaps of flesh and no feeling

I do not know how you sit with others and dont feel alone when you and them have never truly opened your throats

When you and them have never shared open infected cuts, or the swirls of lights, circling inside of your palms

I feel like a creature washed up on the beach

With my gills gasping with the hurt of no home

I did not know i was so unusual

These strands of glass ☆

There is a shimmering ache and rage and lust in the middle of my bones

For chaos and bloodshed and skin 

And warmth in belly

Blinking spaces ☆☆☆

But maybe 

Im these crammed blinking spaces

With christmas lights that never go into the basement

With windows and doors that are always open

And a taste of brew sweet from yeast and grain

I feel like i could fly, like instead of closing I could open

I feel myself glowing like that shimmering burn somewhere in my heart

Of wanting, needing, yearning

And for once feeling like i'm getting it

I am an animal, like all else

We are animals too scared to admit we are we are covered in scar tissue (afraid, too scared to cry for help)/afraid to ask for help

And sometimes when this heart feels dark and sticky, when it feels mould spreading in arteries, it has asked, it has begged, it has cried for stop, for love and hold 

for light and dark: for easy

for a fast surge of fire or a granade, abyss like a bliss: to end, to stop, to heal

So then I tell all the little beautifully coloured explosions inside of me, i tell all the metal and iron and salt and flowers 

I tell them all, (my children)

That these things are never ever easy

But I will try

I will learn to live softly

salt filled regret

Which of these tearings

These (salt filled) scars

Were self inflicted

And which were like a knife

Washed in from the tide

Like glass reflecting in ocean waves

Where the cloth dries up innocent blood

But does it even matter

Where all the blood comes from?

Did i do myself a favor 

The day I decided to feel every fiber

Every sting and burn of my body and mind

To feel it all

To fall

Is that the right thing to do?

I am so so tired

Of always asking

*

When should i listen?

When can i trust what I am feeling?

This bruning of being here

And yet i have stayed

Like a bride in the snow

With purple fingers and a white nose

Thinking i was not made for love

But maybe I would have ached all along, no matter where I would have belonged

But i still know, something here is missing

When every breath of fresh air feels like a new lung

An organ awaited

And being once again in that warm light i think will hug and kiss my skin

I instead feel the sting deep whitin

Of not enough

Or not what I needed

Is it worth it?

Worth it all?

I do not know

how little you care ☆☆☆

I feel

How little you see 

Me

Or care

But I am learning

To not care 

I have such love for all people

Such memories and sensations

My best friend is apple juice, dark chocolate and the smell of the ocean 

And i thought this new person was hairdye, and babies and buttons

But i think not, maybe not

When she does not care for me like i care for people

No listening, no aftertough, no sincere care or emotion

But sometimes i see gaps, small needlepoints, tiny swords of hope

Like with my parents, but i have learnt

People remain the same unless there had been some big revelation, massive change

And these people must have supressed many times the feelings and open-critique people have showed them 

They are already somewhere of their own

And nothing like the face of a flower, or a glimt of hope can change that

Most people have a small something 

That you could cherish and love

But the question is if all else dims you, or starves you to the bone

I will not let you eat me up

I will become meat, and stardust and the thruth of my lungs

This evening ☆☆☆

This evening

Like i had something in my pocket

Some strange orange light

Some beads or ornaments of paper

I think it is that sweetness of feeling the never-ending and never-changiness of humanity

How a heart will always be a heart upon any point of history

But mostly how my heart felt that night

Pink and bright

Having the blanket of a friend over my back

And a cup of water in my hands

How happy i am

For the simplest of things

Of a roof, of a lamp, of bread and water in my hand

I am lucky to be, where i am

And also in such care, that I longed for when I was little and scared

These days i can smell the wash of sweet dryed laundry

And something i would call: a life of my own, (though not always easy or under control?)

But still my own, my own

And a friend to hug and tell

To say you care

Having been gifted such a sweet necklace of words

To keep

To carry 

To cherish in the darkest of nights

Watching the beads and silver string blinking in moonlihght 

Gaps of white