the-writing-writer-wrote

Do you remember the first
lightning bug
you accidentally killed?
How you squeezed it too hard
in your fist because
you wanted to keep it long enough
to show us?
No one knows what you did with
the light, or where your hand
has been since it happened,
but they’re all curious.

When did it get bad?
When did your voice turn into an
answering machine?
There’s a man at the door who wants
to save your soul. Says he’s been
looking for you,
that God sent him a message telling
him you needed his forgiveness.
The act. The circus of it all.
I’ll tell him to come back later.

Do you remember when you cracked
open by accident,
spilled your firefly sun all over my floor
like it was wine?
I do. I saw it. Proof that you
were still here,
glowing somewhere that you
forgot you could reach.

Tell me about everything you buried
and how it came climbing out of
you with a vengeance. Tell me about
beauty and the beast, the hand and
the fist,
how you remembered you could be
both the thing that opens and the
thing that closes.
Come to me.
Forgive yourself for the things
that turned you into a ghost.
Let me watch you love yourself
solid again.

Caitlyn Siehl, Phantom Hand (via alonesomes)
the-writing-writer-wrote
My sentences are long, with no end and no beginning. My jokes are corny. I eat ice cream out of a tub and love left-over pizza. I mix vodka and tequila even though I know better. My hair is always a mess, and there is always smudged mascara somewhere on my face. All of my white shirts have stains. I can’t walk in heels, but I wear them anyway. I have strong opinions. I am passionate. I am stubborn. My will doesn’t bend easily. I am indecisive and a little bit lost. I seek comfort in books - I don’t trust people, I like music more than I like to talk. I have good days and bad days, and stay-all-day-in-bed days. I have dreams, and hopes and problems. I am chaos. I am a person. I am not a love interest. I am not a poorly written character your character helps define. I am not a line in a poem - I am the poet. I do not strive to be liked, I want to be loved. And if you can’t love me with my flaws you don’t deserve my love, for it too - is flawed.
m.v., It wasn’t me, it was you.  (via findingwordsforthoughts)