“She Was A Glorious Doll, So Fair And Delicate! She Did Not Seem Created For The Sorrows Of This World.”

Eyes

Eyes of flowing honey,

eyes of swirling ocean.

Is there really so much of a difference?

Both marred with scars,

painfully etched in over the years by family and friends and society itself.

A father filled with rage,

a mother who never wanted her.

One desperate to fit in with American society and one forever distancing herself from it.

One knowing nothing about himself and the other knowing everything about the both of them.

Yet, when their eyes meet all the scars seem to smooth over,

the raging sea calms,

the honey travels far from the fearsome bees of its past.

And, when they are inevitably torn apart?

Reblog this to prove your blog was made before the February 2022 tumblr resurgence

23 years old and I’ve never had a significant other.

I’ve never held hands with someone. I’ve never gone out on a date. I’ve never even been kissed. It never used to really affect me, all of this. I always had this innate confidence that it wouldn’t be like this forever; that my person would come when they’re meant to. But lately, it’s been weighing on me. I’m not a middle-schooler anymore, or a teenager. As each year goes by, it seems more and more out of reach.

Maybe it’s seeing all of my old friends from school getting engaged on social media or moving in with their SO. Maybe it’s because we’ve been in a pandemic for two years and having someone to love and feel loved by would bring a sense of comfort and lightness. I’m not really sure. All I know is, it’s a heavy feeling, this feeling like you’re not desirable or wanted. It makes you so afraid that you’ll never find anyone, because how could you if all you’ve ever known your entire life is being single? The thought of being in a relationship *EVER* is like a pipe dream to me. And it’s awful to feel that way.

But I still hope for it, just the same. It’s just that the hopefulness if starting to get painful.

Ahem, I may or may not have read far too many novels recently. How do I know this? I have now developed a slight crush on my academic rival in school. Goodness.

Why are all the best things I write just flowers and vanilla and sunlight? Honestly, I’ve detected a distinct theme. I’m not sure if I’m complaining. I do like flowers and vanilla and sunlight, and I do enjoy writing different types of light, especially that honey-gold, early-morning sunlight. I just wish I could be that good at writing anything else.

His pillow was wet with salty tears and his eyes were swollen from crying as he woke up. His chapped lips stung with the taste of saltwater. Diana called him.

“What time is it,” he asked, his voice cracking. He hoped she would think he was just tired. She did not.

“It’s just about 8 o’clock. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything but simply hung up. He walked to the South Meadow again, slower than last time. He did not see Theo next to him. After a few minutes sitting at the bench next to the field, he heard a voice behind him.

“You’ll be late to chapel,” it said quietly, worried. Theo popped up in front of him. He tried his best to smile. Theo did not mask the concerned expression on his own face. He noticed a stray tear right under Alexander’s eye, and knelt down to wipe it away. The feeling of his hand on Alexander’s face made his skin tingle. He started to smile honestly. Theo sat down next to him quietly.

It started to rain, and Theo stood up from the bench.

“We’ll be late,” he repeated simply. Alexander walked behind him to chapel.

A Poem About Rain

I walk out,

Feeling the cold air press against me.

The clouds melt,

Sending their crystalline droplets.

They shatter on the cold ground,

So quickly;

I seem a goddess.

Little dark spots appearing

As my oxfords tap on the pavement.

Drops drip

From the cherry tree,

A bride in spring’s white.

I knew this would happen.

Something in the way the clouds hung over the sky,

Something in the shadow.

I knew that it would rain.

Something in the air, the ambit.

Rain, the ultimate acissmus.

Peace before the onslaught,

Icarus also flew.

Details: Seascape, Alfred Thompson Bricher, 1890

“She is loveliness itself.”

― Jane Austen, from “Emma.”