There are dark places in our minds
that only we,
as the owners of that blackness,
Through understanding comes the torture
of knowing there is awfulness in all of us,
and some of us hide
(pretending it is not, and never will be there)
and some of us embrace it,
but in the end
it controls us in one way or another.
The only true question left
is how black
is your blackness,
and will you let that be the only thing
you have to define you?
I bet you're a fire cracker in the sack.
Um I’m going to choose not to comment too much on this, but thank you?
You would deny that water is wet, and silk is soft, and that the sun in the sky can burn people if those things did not fit your purposes. Sweetheart, you can’t make truths that don’t exist, and you can’t make life conform to your whims. You’re just a child stamping your foot because for once things didn’t go your way, and god forbid you learn how to deal with that.
The time of day
matters little anymore,
I miss you
no matter when it is.
And some days you just feel like crying,
no reason whatsoever,
you just haven’t cried for a while,
and suddenly the sadness
rushes you all at once
(like a sports team trying to take down
the other team’s all-star player),
and that’s when you find yourself
on the floor of the stockroom closet
wishing you didn’t have to work,
or leave the house period,
on this day.
Yes, we all have those moments,
and it’s a wonder
no one ever notices the tear stains.
There’s a crack in my chest
and I’m just now realizing
that it belongs there,
for nothing would ever
make its way to our hearts
if there were not breaks in our ribcage
to sneak a stealing hand through.
I have fingers made of spider silk, pale as moonlight, and lighter than air. They capture many things, of both great importance and small, but nothing can compare to the magic you have gifted to me, and that I cradle most gently of all for it is not often that one can hold love inside scarred spider silk hands, frayed to the point of only clutching what they need, and care about, most.
You swallow my words before I get even the chance to voice them, no wonder my tongue is always silent, my words can only survive to be written on a page.
Golden light gets captured in glass jars, and also reflected out of prisms in brilliant rainbows. I feel like that’s what happens with the love you give me. It gets captured in my heart, warming, glowing, and is then reflected out in the happiness that no one else can make me feel.