Is Life Always Struggling Out Of You? And The More You Laugh, Slowly, Bit By Bit, Life Echoes Out Of

I don't annotate much in books, and yet if it was him? I'd underline every letter. the margins would be complete with my handwriting (I hope). I'd highlight all of him, every single page.

math exam was so good it made me think, don't get men get maths fr

You can't drag me away from cities, no matter the serenity of small towns and farmhouses. Something unspoken about it always attracts me, so many lives, bursting with energy, each fast and bright in its own galaxy, none too similar to the other or to mine, and I, a lone observer, will never get enough of that feeling.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the way you said you’d run away with me if I wanted to, that you would hold my hand and I would lift my skirts and we’d escape this constant, vicious cycle. A blaze of hemorrhaging problems blooming like flowers in our trail, the vines did eventually engulf our little bubble of ignorance. So here I am, placing an eyelash on your pinkie, oh and if we could wish the world away. I don’t know quite a lot of things, I don’t know whether I should've ran, whether I should've dared to wish of you, should’ve should’ve should’ve done so much more or pulled back after fixing your hair. Is it bad, that sometimes I wish the thorns popped our little bubble earlier? Is it better you leave than asking if you would stay?

golden threads like spools of glazed time, rippling over skin reflected upon or emboldened in time? slivers of voices trapped in the warm rays touching and painting your hair, wisps of unwound paths waiting to be caught. so many red strings, fluttering like our erratic beating, yet I'm left weaving tapestries from bare scraps of discarded lint. furious stitching, from the timed ripples dying, words of a melody barely coaxed by red and blemished fingers. the same golden threads, now remain unspooled, what a mess, caged like a broken Wallace. soft goodbyes left unsaid, braids woven for ultimate indifference. what knot did we miss for the tapestry to burn and not shine? the yellow so dull like jaundiced eyes but the red so stark like first drawn blood.

writing is just letting your wounds bleed on paper.

Was icarus's fall so terrible after all? He would've died with a smile on his face, the sun all beautiful on him, setting him ablaze. Golden boy alight in his fall, golden are our kisses which set me ablaze and my wings burn in all their glory as you sweep my ashes 'neath the rug. The wax stuck to my lashes doesn't seem to scald your skin as much as I'd hoped and it seems fair to give it all up, for just a fleeting moment of your rays spreading across my skin, painting my lips, as if all the gold would hide the red underneath. Icarus must've surely died with a smile on his face, for I know I did in your smoldering embrace.

if you paint us like pressed flowers, will watering the blooming golds really make a difference? for you don't paint love, paintings blossom into vivid petals, with sunflowers turning to their love, no you don't paint, your hands trace over the pressed greens, definitive and sure, as if fate itself guided your hands. so perhaps if you drew me as a lover, perhaps i would've sent the letters i wrote to you, perhaps i wouldn't have been such a cynic to your light, and now i sit and wonder whether you'll read the note addressed to you tomorrow, or when you're 30 and quiet? i painted you a bleeding heart, was it mine or was it yours i do not know, you drew me as a pretty, lulling turn, but i painted the way gold blends into your dark hair, the blue of your hands, the liner on your eyes, i painted you, and in a twisted way i suppose, that is my way of saying i would've been yours, if only the flowers we plucked weren't already pressed, if the flowers grew, through time and space. I'm sorry i painted you the way i imagined it would be like, meeting you for the first time tomorrow, i preserve the flower i wish i had allowed to grow.

Yes, your heart stopped at 5:05 am. You still have so much time left across the world. Frida kahlo painted flowers so that they would not die, my darling muse, how can I ever accept that you're gone?

cut my hand on an angel’s halo, he said he’d never seen anybody bleed, what happens when the blood’s just red and not a wholesome tragedy? thought I couldn’t stand your final flight, reliving every sigh while crossing the road, till I wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. guarded my heart with his, but what happens when the knife doesn’t exist? and what happens when the ribs pierce the heart? so crushing of a hug, left only to red seeping internally, while fathoming the countless leaving, and bruised knees from hoping for the heaven you met me in.