index: the different types of crying

{source – http://weheartit.com/entry/group/25620405 }

one; your mom gets a phone call. she turns to you, whispers, “she’s passed away.” you think about all she’s lived for, all the times you’ve spent with her, all the people that will miss her. your hands shake a little, and you have no comfort for your mother. you bow your head, entangle your hands, stay silent, weep.

two; staring up at your bedroom ceiling. the lights are all off in the house. your brother is asleep across the room, snoring gently. the trees outside cast solemn shadows against your room’s walls. in the space where there is no sound, you feel a wet patch on your pillow. you wake no one. by morning, your pillow looks the same as always.

three; the kind of tears that won’t stop. the kind of crying where you look up at your father, and the hot tears fall fast down your cheeks. your mouth is clamped shut; you dare not speak to him. every time you open your mouth, strain to speak, the syllables barely make it past your lips, and you break down – your whole face starts to shake, the world goes blurry, and high-pitched half-screams rattle in your ribcage and shoot out of your system. the kind of crying where you think, “nothing will ever be the same again”. the kind of crying where you think, “i’ll never see him in the same light again”. the kind of crying you wish you could forget.

index: the different types of crying

natural remedy

{source – http://weheartit.com/entry/148255366 / tumblr}

i.

the bare trees
hold forked limbs that
point up to the sky,
as if asking Heaven
why they were created
only to be destroyed.

ii.

the neighbours had complained of mosquitoes
being housed in the trees that guarded my window side.
i guess that was the pity of living
in an apartment building.
when i had reached home one afternoon,
i noticed the corridor was awfully bright.
awfully bright.
the trees had never looked so sullenly brown,
nor had the nearby building seemed so close.
the other trees had been left with leaves, intact,
but they seemed to huddle away
from the site of destruction;
their emaciated bodies looking on, forlorn.

iii.

i came home to find bright green leaves sprouting
on the trees that guarded my window side.
they were being reborn.
their roots began to sink deeper into their
restricted section of soil
and they pressed harder at the chance of new life.
such is the beauty of nature’s persistence, i thought;
for this had not been the first time
that these trees had been bare.

iv.

today i stepped on something
that should have been familiar
but was not. i glanced down
and i was on the grave of a tree within my estate.
its trunk was gone, but its roots remained,
and i was horrified;
but i knew it was not dead. it would grow back.

among the concrete
buildings, full of humans, fierce
was mother nature.

natural remedy

“prettier”

{this came from somewhere but i can’t find its home i’m so sorry}

“I wish I was prettier.”
“Then do something about it.”

I could.
I could strip myself down, layer by layer, skin by skin.
Dunk myself in a vat of foundation. Massage it into my pores, so hard that my knuckles turn purple, so hard that my bones clatter. I want to cover all my blemishes: every single detail.
Lipstick will leave bright red lines on my lips and down my arms in haphazard, jagged lines, as if they’re asking for me to raise my hands and surrender.
When I look into the mirror, my eyebrow pencil marks will question me, whisper things only I can hear, over and over again: “do you really want to go out looking like this? Is this really the right shape for you?”
– And when they are silent, all I can see are the blemishes. The uneven skin tone, the acne, the large pores, the oil, the raw bareness of a naked face.
I put foundation back on. –
My mascara will shut my eyes closed. My bronzer will find its way into my mouth and leave a sour taste. My foundation will begin to run, as sweat runs down my face; cold sweat, waiting for approval.

A pin drops.

I will go back. I will go back and change it all. Buy a new moisturizer, yes. Get a toner. I will scrub harder, I will wake earlier, I will force myself to look into the mirror until my eyes stop twitching in response.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I stand in the valley of the shadows, where gold is promised to lie ahead, but the only path I can see before me is self-loathing. This is my path to take; not anybody else’s – mine alone.
I close my eyes, and I teeter.
And yet, I feel like without having to move my legs, I will get swept forth eventually.

“prettier”

recovering from obsession

{i’m sorry i can’t find a proper source for this, it was initially from tumblr, please let me know if this is yours}

I consider myself a recovering obsessionista. It was a term I coined a while back, the little cherry on top an otherwise gruesome-looking banana split. Frankly, it was only obsessive, sans the cheery. I have only the privilege of saying that this period was one of the darkest of my short life.

I did not exist; rather, I was more of a pretty, empty seashell; an amalgamate of bones held together by sheer will. I had to be filled to function, because I was not filled with myself.

On good mornings, I would stare at the mirror with sunken eyes and think: “you should brush your teeth. What would Matt think of this behavior? He wouldn’t kiss a girl with bad breath.” Matt was a buoy I clung unto, like many others, and he was even more of a fictional character I made up than he ever was a real human being to me. On bad mornings, of which there were several, my teeth went unbrushed for days. My only motivation, when there was, was always somebody else.

I was obsessed with photos of girls much more aesthetically-appealing than me. Hours were dedicated into scrolling in silence, browsing photo after photo of girls with good cheekbones, pearly white smiles, good skin; girls who were adored by many, who garnered thousands of followers and photo likes. A monster I did not even knew I housed fed off all these things, and then it would feed on me. Like a paralyzed prey, I succumbed to it. The morning after would be slightly better. I would feel some sense of drive to invest in products to enhance my appearance. I would look up YouTube videos of make-up tutorials, blog posts about skin care regiments, but nothing got better. I was not filled. I went back into my habit, and it became a nasty cycle, but at least for a moment, the quench for wholeness was satiated.

I consider myself a recovering obsessionista. I do not want to go back to that life. I want to put myself first. I was obsessed with the idea that I needed an obsession, a dependency of sorts, to live. But I reject now. I will learn to stand on my own with crutches, and then I will stand on my own. I want to live on my own terms, and by my own standards.

And one day, I believe I will be truly content with who I am.

recovering from obsession

you are no longer my Rosaline

{found here – http://weheartit.com/entry/group/59331528 – it was difficult to find the exact source}

i. doubt

I have never really understood infatuation, and I’ve never been much of a follower of dictionary definition.

Where does infatuation stop, and love begin? Is it worth fighting for? Is it a simple phase that will, like all temporary things, pass, wither and fade? What is the numbness in my stomach? What is the silence that hovers between us, likes a million fragments of broken glass waiting to cut any of us that dares to draw closer? What do I feel when I imagine what holding your hand will be like? What is the force of attraction that dares me to go closer to you, to touch your cheek, to whisk us away from the crowd?

What is keeping me keeping you around, keeping you near me?

ii. power

I think I look at you more as a human being now.

I do not see you wrapped in a fantasy anymore. I refuse to idolize you or make your little actions big actions in my head. I actually open my mouth now. I have real exchanges with you; simple, forgettable words said and smiles exchanged. I do not want to be your lover, because I was in love with a picture, a face, and not a person. It’s hard to say if I even want to be your friend. And I love the idea of that; that people can exist in relationships that cannot be named, more than acquaintances but not friends and yet not lovers of any sort. I love that I can sit with you and not feel my entire being buzzing, involuntarily on fire, that I can choose to speak to you but say nothing of substance at all.

Now I am no longer a moon; I am my own planet.

you are no longer my Rosaline

i am not broken

It took me a while to learn
Of wholeness, of being a person
All my life I was searching for someone
Who would kiss me on the lips and hold my hand;
Look me in the eyes with love;
And fill a hole I thought I had

As a little girl I went from crush to crush;
Infatuation to infatuation
In love with the idea of always having someone
To gaze at adoringly,
To admire from afar,
To play out scenarios in my head where we became lovers
Obsessed with the theory that I would always need
Somebody else.

But people, I learned, are meant
To complement and not complete
And I realised that I can be content
Without somebody else on my mind.

If I scratch, break, shatter
I will put myself back together.
I will pick up my own pieces,
and glue myself back.
I am not broken,
I am not a half looking for another,
I am a whole human being and I will love myself enough.

i am not broken

voices

{found here – http://www.edhodgkinson.com/small.html }

some voices
hang, for a second,
a tiny soap bubble in a city of glass,
before shattering into tiny shards –
frozen remnants of words –
and dispersing throughout the air
too insignificant to matter

some voices
pierce,
a rain of arrows in stale air
javelins sailing, finding their mark in eardrums,
reverberating like gongs,
insistent and demanding and mesmerizing and
captivating.

some voices
are heard without meaning to,
are forgotten,
are never heard.
some voices
are defeated under crushing weight,
are waiting to shine through the darkness.

 

voices