Love And Despair Are Drawn From The Same Well.

I don’t love you anymore. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

But

-

There are days I wake up and I think I feel your arms around me 

And my lungs

Ache like I haven’t taken in enough air. 

-

There are days where I turn

with your name on my lips 

And there is nothing there, only empty air,

Dust motes and smoke. 

-

I don’t love you anymore, 

but

-

It’s been so long since I was alone, 

I’d forgotten the way loneliness tastes like regret 

when you’ve drunk enough of it. 

-

—y.c.

Everyone loves a good tragedy.

The broken pieces scattered in an abyss

The quiet pleading in the rain

The silent aftermath when all is

said

gone

dead.

Everyone loves a good tragedy,

but I suppose the tragedy is us, isn’t it?

Too young to give up

Too old to make up dreams

that fly us from reality on golden wings

— until the tragedy is them (y.c.)

A friend of mine wants flowers for her room, she says. 

She wants to make it beautiful and vibrant and fresh, but

Blossoms fade and petals mold, she says,

Clutching her falsified flowers, 

Petals carefully crafted—

A forgery,

hundreds of days in the making in factories where they make 

          hundreds of petals that never die.

Immortality is the prize, beauty a side effect, and yet

How many of us choose both as a goal?

-

—Immortality comes with plastic petals (y.c.)

Bastard,

they called you

As if the lack of father is a curse

(It is not)

Murderer,

they called you

As if the ones you killed deserved any less

(They did not)

Darling,

she called you

As if her gentle words would be enough to save you

(They were not)

Cursed,

you call yourself

What do they know,

of broken souls and

breaking hearts

mothered by a broken promise and

sired from a broken vow

(Nothing. They know nothing.)

— y.c.

Mother, I think I’m cursed

This air is turning to poison

This heart is falling apart

Mother, I think I’m blind

The path is dark and winding

No light shines on these parts

Mother, I think I’m dying

There’s nothing but numbness here

and a voice whispering, “We’re all mad here”

Mother, I don’t want you to save me

This darkness has begun to feel like home

and it truly has been so long since

I felt at home

— y.c.

Sometimes I think that eternal love is the adult Santa Claus … we all know that it does not exist but nobody wants to hear it …

Alessandro Cattelan 

@thelovejournals

(via thelovejournals)

Harsh, but something to keep in mind We so often get caught up in our own worlds. Sometimes while we’re busy basking in the glory of our achievements, we forget to share that joy and pride. Sometimes we just need to step back and remember that we’re not the centre of the universe.

Years ago, my friend had a ganglion cyst, right on her wrist. 

Fluid build-up. Best to let it rest. 

Don’t aggravate the joint. 

It’ll go away on its own. 

.

Some days, I think memory is a bit like that. 

A build-up in oft-agitated joints, 

The nerve bundle harmed by relentless back-and-forth that has become

       habit, 

Become routine. 

It goes away on its own, quiet as a last breath stealing out of a lung. 

Fades as time wears on.

.

Other times, it’s more like a broken bone, never healed right. 

You remember the crack, the pain, the wrong-ness

       of the displaced shards of calcium. 

You remember the painstaking, irritating, frustrating process

       of healing and relearning simple tasks. 

.

On rainy days, the bone twinges. 

On rainy days, you are right back to the break. 

.

—you can always wait for the sun (y.c.)

They’d been lulled into a false sense of security with this gentle, quiet version of him. But gentle didn’t mean safe, and quiet didn’t mean meek. The same terrifying fire burned in him still, an intense mix of unpredictability and unyielding.

— Yushan C.