I Cannot Say

What was the last thing you searched for online? Why were you looking for it?

If I revealed the last thing I searched for online, it would be the name of the person I was stalking.

The why is obvious—I wanted to know if this person posted anything on their social media accounts that would give me a bit of insight into something I was curious about.

Why do we stalk people from the shadows?

I will be the first to confess that it gives me a thrill. As open as I can be on my blog, I can be just as closed off in real life—but the downside of that is that it’s hard to let people in and it can get really lonely sometimes. My experience these past several years with letting people in has, without fail, ended in disaster. I don’t know if it’s the generation that we currently live in that makes people fickle, or if it’s due to my sheltered upbringing, or my expectations are way off—or a combination of any of these options—but the end result has always been incredibly disappointing.

I read somewhere recently that everyone being online gives people the illusion of options so no one wants to be loyal and committed anymore. It really resonated with me and makes so much sense. The emotional nakedness that comes with face-to-face interactions, especially in todays hookup culture, is harder for most people than being physically naked with a stranger they just met.

Third base now means posting someone on your Instagram story!

First base is sex.

Crazy. Completely and utterly bonkers. I genuinely don’t like this bandwagon we’re all on and I want to get off.

But back to my stalking. As much as I hate it, I also secretly enjoy the thrill. But along with this, I am totally aware of how toxic it is and I’m looking forward to the day that I will no longer have the urge to stalk anyone because of how in love with my own life I will be.

And I’m taking that one to the bank.

Mistakes are for beginners, we experts aim for disaster

From the very beginning, he looked like a bad decision some unfortunate soul was about to make. I was always careful to keep a pristine image, taking every precaution to be a good girl.

But sometimes, good wasn’t good enough.

The confusion lay in the forbidden thrill of deviating from the path.

Why did being wicked feel so euphoric?

He pulls his shirt off impatiently, reaching over his head and tugging it up and over with a swift pull. My eyes fasten on the play of muscles underneath his skin as they ripple with each move he makes.

Dragging in a shallow breath, I still as he prowls over to the bed where I sit.

Are you come as lover or executioner?

In the Grip of a Narcissist

A narcissist will make you question if you are worthy of love. They will almost make you hate yourself because they can turn your natural need for their attention against you, making it a shameful thing, making you ashamed of yourself for being so weak and pitiful. You start hating being inside your own mind, inside your own skin. You start becoming intimate with loathing.

Every girl should love a horse at least once in her lifetime

My pretty girl

Kisses for Sweetie

Can you look at me, please?

That’s a good girl

Losses

It’s so interesting how quickly we lose ourselves. It’s as if we don’t believe in the weight we hold with how swiftly we find ourselves shuffled underneath the weight of someone’s opinion, or rejection, or even if it’s an impossible thing, it still feels like rejection. When you make the choice to heal and to start gathering all of your scattered pieces, it feels like getting to know yourself all over again, and what a lovely thing that is. I stumble upon bits and pieces of myself with a surprised exclamation every time. “Oh, I DO love to write poetry, and I can write to my hearts content! I have a blog, and that IS an excellent thing, and I can enjoy it as much as I want. Oh yes, I remember now, I do love my inquisitive nature and I can find joy in pursuing all of my hobbies again. And no one can take that from me.” It’s a shame how quickly we snuff ourselves out when someone fails to recognize our inherent gifts and we die a sort of death. But the beauty is that we can always choose to come alive again, and each time feels a little more magical than the last.

Fever Dreams

I search for you in my blackest

midnight,

my drunken, misguided North Star.

Born of cunning and velvet

and the spaces between stars,

you were clothed by your maker in all the ways I yearned for you.

Were you a fever dream I restlessly brought forth

or were you sent to torment me

for all my wanton sins?

I’ve repented of each one a thousand times

if only to remove the scent of you from every layer of my skin.

Between pleas flung into the inky night,

I pray,

are you come as my salvation or my ruin?

Dues and all the ways I’ve paid them

If longing were a mountain
You are the one on which I die

Fly away, black raven

With every word I free, I tear
pieces of my soul
from your double fisted grip that
in turns
caressed me and
acquainted me with bitter loss.
You, who stood silhouetted
against everything I wantonly desired.
Dark, Machiavellian symphony
with lilting melodies of aching tenderness.
With blood red lips
I whisper desperate
prayers.

Eons

The depth of my longing for you 

destroys me.

How do you kill so beautifully?

What madness 

have you lit inside my veins, etching 

my walls and stars with ruin?

I am become the ages

filled with echoes of unfulfilled

desire. 

Prettier Than a Broken Heart

If I could write to you of sorrow, if I could explain this devastation,
I’d use words like utterly, and calamity, and grief.

But the words refuse my bidding, choosing to cloak themselves in darkness and half formed thoughts instead.

They shuffle off their course like drunken sailors, lose their way somewhere between half-hearted and dejected.

With quivering chins and sagging limbs, I’ve not the strength to make them dance
to fool a broken heart into being
prettier than it ever is.