Tag Archives: jealous

Danielle’s Falling October

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that makes autumn feel so jealous

From her button freckles to her pumpkin-spice skin

She dances vivaciously in a riot of fireplace colours

.

Oh yes, she’s my redhead darling

The rarest kind that always makes my vintage heart feel new

When the pages are torn to cliffhangers and wishful nothings

Her camera smile captures every quaint blush of my pale hue.

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nocturnes, numbers, nyctophilia

It meant nothing to him any longer, only a faint tinge of sadness—and somewhere within him, a drop of pain moving briefly and vanishing, like a raindrop on the glass of a window, its course in the shape of a question mark. ~Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

~*~

i.) the jealous penmanship

clever words left tears forming in my brain

ones that i have to open up my healing bruises

just so i could let them out somewhere

somewhere my veins wouldn’t be affected severely

(it was late at night, and my stars called out from nowhere)

sensations poured out from every letter and departure,

as it entangled itself with my nerves and wore them down,

and wore them like a dirty dress, and wore them out to town

until they were worn-out; nothing but a few stray threads.

i burned half of my journals when i turned 16 and stopped trying

to imitate being an author, because writing for me isn’t an expectation–

it’s nothing but another puzzling lock without a skeleton key

and because the most delicate daydream wasn’t mine

because selfishness, to me, is not just another bland adjective

because my bones screamed with the weight of a black hole

because your reveries were enchanting. and mine were f a d e d

n o , i ‘ l l  n e v e r  b e  a s  g o o d  a s  y o u

~*~

ii.) softness, like his heart in the shape of a newborn galaxy

i faded into an ugly shade of something that’s neither monochrome nor coloured;

on the verge of collapsing onto the other side of the fence, threatening madly

but never quite having the contemplation to choose a losing side

as i fell down into the blue of a stranger’s wanderlust eyes.

someone else had taken most of that vibrant shade already, but i managed

to steal away just a sliver, a glimpse, an infinitesimal shiver

and it was the kind of lasting cold that froze summer hurricanes

and kept my breaths visibly foggy and crisply sharp with every inhale

(you never warned me. you don’t know me, but you knew me too well. and i never listen.)

i’ll always be an insignificant detail in the cyan tapestry you painted for yourself

and i’ve accepted that long ago when i said i loved you in my nightmares,

tossing and turning on the bed covered in plastic arrogance because

no other blanket felt warm and comfortable enough for my body to sleep on

until then, i could only sink deeper into the fathomless wish that this universe would end s o o n

i t  w a s  a  k i n d  o f  l o v e  t h a t  m a d e  s u i c i d e  s o u n d  l i k e  m u s i c

~*~

iii.) an abrupt goodbye/the guilty party often disappears first

i was mad at something. i didn’t know what it was, but it was foolish enough

for me to take it out onto the embracing autumn sky, on the taciturn smiles that

were supposed to hold me when tempestuous desolation grabbed at my twisted throat…

and on you. you never meant anything. you just wanted to talk, and so did i,

but my tongue was a spilling box of blades, and every time i opened my

wounded mouth to make you laugh, i always ended up cutting you by accident instead.

(friend, even if i said i’m sorry, can you ever forgive me for what i’ve done to you?)

it was an unreasonable apology, and i erased myself because of my own self-hatred,

but not before leaving footprints of a migraine in your head, which you will inadvertently step on,

slip at, and hurt yourself…fuck. i don’t know why i’m like this. i don’t know why i have

to push and pull apart the only semblance of logic in my life, the only anchor

that keeps me from towing away from the tides, the last person that still feels real to me

when everything else has blurred into an amalgamated indistinct static background;

i don’t know why i feel so smothered, when you’re the only attention i’ll ever have and need.

at this point, the only thing we have is each other’s problems, and the way we both

jeered at it, taunted it, and blocked it out with our own shared playlists until we felt better—

but now that summer was just a distant memory, and so was the scarlet artwork we made of it.

you also needed comfort. but did even try? no. i ran away from the colliding wreckage

as if it wasn’t my fault, and i numbed myself out because i couldn’t do the same for y o u

i ‘ m  s o r r y  i  m a d e  y o u  s a y  s o r r y  s o  m u c h . . .

i  d i d n ‘ t  m e a n  t o  d e s t r o y  e v e r y t h i n g

~*~

iv.) the midnight closes. the violent curtain falls.

the cold glow of my computer screen was rude and restless

and it made my fingers promise, crossed and uncrossed, that i would

stay with it until it slips into comatose. i have rinsed my mouth with lukewarm water

a hundred times to try to wash out the taste of stale coffee, but it never came out and now

i’m stuck with it until morning, until another astrological moon cycle, until i lose

myself in the chemical moments of something that’s so artificially natural.

i’m constantly starving myself, stuck between confidence and relapsing withdrawals of

my past life that i thought i discarded when i finally held on to my shooting star,

but it was always tethered tightly to me by a crimson string. and it always probably will be.

i’m alone. i’m friends with people that talk shit to me in the mirror, and when i bite

my chapped lips and draw blood by accident, it almost feels like atonement. almost.

(i got what i came for and i can’t try again. this is what i want…..isn’t it?)

i know that there are people out there making fun of me and rolling their eyes

petulantly as they bask in the trite, whimsical “perfection” of their storybook existence

but not everything has a happy ending, and not every sad story has to end badly.

i don’t know. i’ll never know. i’m tired and i have responsibilities that i’m not

built for, and every crack turns into a break, and a break into shattered p i e c e s

t o m o r r o w  i ‘ l l  d o  t h i s  o v e r  a g a i n  .  u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  t o m o r r o w s .

~*~

v.) nocturnes.

( a n d  i ‘ l l  s t a y  h e r e )

u n t i l  i  r u n  o u t  o f  n u m b e r s  t o  c o u n t ,

a n d  t h o u g h t s  t o  f e e l ,

a n d  n i g h t s  t o  s t a y  a w a k e .

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Ruby Woo

Sit around waiting for the spark to fade
You can add another face to your pity parade
I can’t believe it, I’ve never felt so cheated
Knock me down, it was all pretend
You set me back up just to do it again…

~*~

I hope that you’re proud

Making fun of the boys on the street

That bruised their knees

And couldn’t get back up again after

While you swallow yourself

Whole, lipstick girl with a lipstick heart

Defending her own jealous

“I’ll be happy forever and ever and ever”

.

I hope that you’re proud

For making fun of the people that couldn’t

Stitch their lungs as well

As you probably thought you fucking did

While no air leaves your

Open lips, lipstick girl with a lipstick brain

Pretending that her beauty

Is nothing more than an ugly kind of pain.

~*~

What am I supposed to do, uh oh
When she’s so damn cold, like twenty below?
That girl, that girl, she’s such a bitch
I tell myself I can handle it…

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Will The Real Author Please Stand Up?

Do you ever get envious of other people’s words?

The way they’re so intricately, elegantly, genuinely made. The way that the sentimental fervour and tortured passion rings out plangently from beyond the curled pages of the book and strikes sharp aches and twinges in even the most desensitised heart. The way you could read them for days at an end and never get tired of the intangible shapes they form, the sophisticated literary art they create, the breathtaking stories they tell. The way that you can never really understand what that individual meant, what they truly felt, and you aren’t quite sure if you could even place yourself in their perception and situation, but despite all that, they’re still your emotions. They’re confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that no soul, living or deceased, can ever know how to speak again. But you can feel them latching in your hair, your skin, your eyes, your lips, speaking your mind, all the words you don’t know how to say, all the senses you never knew existed in the first place, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel.

And so you feel inspired. And so you attempt to write.

But your words, on the other hand, are rather insipid and unamusing. They’re the proverbial rain that never gets written about. The damp, stuffy, erratic kind of drizzle that relents to the point of irritation and drips down cracked ceilings and forgotten open windows. The kind that’s well-meant by the dear weather, but never makes its humble way in poets’ thoughts and poetry books, except occasionally to emphasise a depressing thought. You could stand outside that downpour for days at an end and get not a single drop of water on your skin. Your words feel cheap and secondhand, sharp edges worn-down to cliches and dull torpor, no wit to be found anywhere. Your words are no one else’s and you aren’t quite sure if they’re even yours, or just by the ghost that resides behind your empty ribs. It’s confusing. Messy. A foreign tongue that not a soul, living or deceased, knows how to speak. They’re all the words you can’t say, all the thoughts you don’t know how to feel, but you try to make sense of them anyway.

Do you ever wish…that you couldn’t write?

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Filed under Prose

Hey, Sky Eyes

Drop it right now
You’re one of my favorite few
Can’t stop me right now
Like you’d even want to
What do I do?
You’re one of my favorite, can’t take it
You’re one of my favorite few…

~*~

Infatuation is a stupid word to use on you

And I am about as optimistic as a sinkhole

But these hands are clumsier as they deign

And nimbus clouds grow brighter as it falls

.

It’s out of hand, limerence aching for a getaway

Ecstatic until I’m plastic like dandelion sundays

I can’t be grounded out in the cold, so stay awake

I’ll hide the blush in my skin, if that’s what it takes

.

My dizzy head lies in double time, and my vision’s red

You’re too far from home, but that won’t stop the dead

And a half in my dried mouth, so I’ll keep on ad-libbing

Until every disaster hears the conversations still ongoing

.

The night is a black eye and the purple moon’s just jealous

As ready set stars in my head are restless and overzealous

And I never have time to play favourites when I feel down

I may be a thorn in your neck, but you’re my flower crown.

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There’s Something About Her

Am I eccentrical? 
Exactly what you want
You’d rather give me up
I’m all alone, yeah, I’m alive
Just see how I arrive
Am I someone that you adore?

~*~

What is it about you

That makes me believe

That I’m always less

Of me than I need?

.

What is it about you

That makes me vain

To throw bricks at your

Window when it rains?

.

What is it about you

That makes me stare

To spit in my own eyes

Frustrated that I care?

.

What is it about you

That makes me envy hurt

As the sting of your apathy

Tastes like bittered ice curt?

.

What is it about you

That makes me feel bad

That makes me feel anger

And shitty love in a ballad?

.

What is it about you

That makes me remember

Conversations hostaged by

A gun, memories never over?

.

What is it about you

That makes me see myself

In the chasm of your eyes

Drinking me in to the death?

.

What is it about you

That makes me ask again

Even though you ceased

I’m tempted to keep you in?

.

What is it about you

Making me loathe you thorough

Tell me, just what is it about you

That makes me deign for you so?

~*~

I don’t care, don’t let me die here
Wait, you know I wanna, wait, you know I’m gonna
It’s like you want me to, it’s like you want me to
Stay, you know I’m gonna, stay, you know I wanna
It’s like you want me to, it’s like you want me to fail…

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Jealous Butterflies and Ochre Moth Wings

We’re just two jealous souls breaking envy against the tidal waves, bleeding out elaborate cesspools fervently, and leaving soundless mouths agape for the stained porcelain butterflies to enter, hoping that the fragile incipient creatures would exit our perfidious throats undaunted and provide our dilapidated larynx with an ameliorated song to sing. Yet we only manage to choke on their flimsy polychrome wings and cough them out unceremoniously before we suffocate, the meek and hapless butterflies bent in twisted angles, traces of leaden dust leaving residues of faithful solemnity in our tinted lips, tongues whispering the painful words that no sane mentality dares to hear, destroying the only scant chances for our treasonable prayers to receive heaven.

Then, after all the nascent vituperation that ensconces our quiet bones like an impaired skylight, where would we be? Plucking burnt tawny moth wings out of wilted candle wicks in the destitute hopes that they shall acquiesce the same way those quaint looking glass butterflies did, yet never realising that there is no fraudulence nor varied substitute for that abstract tessellation, that modicum of infinity, that metamorphosed dimension that those nebulous lepidopterons accumulate and exhale. Recovery cannot be replaced, and a replacement cannot be recovered. Amid the failing maiden glow and taffy-stretched daydreams, there is only maligned reverie by maimed lightweights, attempting to endow the subtler nuances of this life a vaguer and more coruscant definition.

Against the jade-eyed desires that we fought ever so vigilantly with inured devastation and bargained discrepancies, against the covetous recidivism and the elaborate secondhand lies that come tucked along within it like opening a painted russian nesting doll, against the prehensile avarice ascending above everything and drowning us in its remorseless cyclone, our jealous souls stand resolutely falling apart. There are no more iridescent enamel butterflies to count prismatic wishes on, no more ashen moth wings to cling onto fragments of faith for, no more candid humility and hackneyed selflessness and altruistic implications, only an imminent invidia and bilateral resentment. Reality ensues, and chaos along with it. Where will our lost nightmares dream now?

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Misstakes and Missgivings

And he will prove that he’s a man
With wooden bed posts whittled away
With the notches, they were carved in
A little too deep, and now he’s paying for it
He’s sleeping on the floor tonight…

~*~

PENCIL SKETCHES

Grey lines overlapping past chromatic predilections

Every lie behind your back a surrendering misdirection

And checkered tiles of monochrome begin to collide

Crippling your floral pastels of a spatial spectrum inside.

~*~

DREAMING FOR WISHES, WISHING FOR DREAMS

Oh, he’s the starry boy you dreamt to dream about

The lamplight is dimming, his dark is the only sound

Oh, she’s the sunny girl you wished to wish around

As midnight begins fading, but her sun is rising south.

~*~

MERCENARY AND THE MAN

Jaded tally marks that bore of no prior ill intentions

Experimental humanity, to prove one’s selfless remedy

Jealous carved notches that dug past poor decisions

Hypothetical insanity, the truth of one’s selfish disparity.

~*~

ANTICOAGULANT

I wouldn’t dare separate those traitors from the sinners

The difference is a gradual distortion of perceptiveness

If I were to dissect myself as my blood’s growing thinner

I’ll inject a dose of my own irrationality, when I confess.

~*~

THE SELLOUTS DON’T BUY IT

Attachment is not a currency made to be paid for in stacks

Clattering like calloused dimes worn out with nicked sides

It’s not a tarnished nickel abandoned in a locked cash box

Restricted only to when you need the spare change to abide.

~*~

I’ll tell my proudest secrets
Don’t mind if you can’t keep them
Well, lately it’s been mayday
So tell me, why is this your favorite sin?
Oh baby, lately it’s been mayday
So tell me why you wanna fake
Why you wanna fake it?

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4 a.m. depression and jealous pasts dripping off the ceiling

thrumming

like fucking echoes

of a firefly miracle

in my coronary doldrum

beating, b-r-o-k-e-n

tongue hanging off

like the way the stars

hold on for gravity but

fall against pierced glass

of darkness anyways

i’m relapsing, r e  c   e    d     i      n        g

the past is killing me again

i say i’m alright

but shit, what if i lied

to myself as well?

the cringes that burrowed

their way into my gelid skin

and gutted my stomach

until i end up heaving in

blood and bile and scissor blades

and choking on perfume

as sweet as promises undone…

fuck you. fuck YOU

please leave me alone, walk

away from my nightmares and

leave my sanity on the doormat

i don’t want to taste your pain

and leave drunk calls on

your answering machine again.

please stop me from you

everything is hurting like hell

on a four a.m. depression

and i’m just trying to fucking

take back sunday and my sleep

from you, so spare me the

profanities and give it back

please, won’t you?

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best fri[end.]

i’m not

jealous

of you

and your

latest

best friend,

i’m just

disappointed

at how we

used to be

closer but

you never

saw me

as one.

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