The girl in the mirror had long hair and a red dress my shabby, pink pants I wished were that pretty. She looked like me: ten and eyes of blue. Instead of asking her name, I asked: Are you finally happy? Girls could like girls too. I found that out when I was just a…
untitled
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ The peach tree on the hill was your favourite place to be on a warm summer evening. The sun had a game it played; blushing red and hiding oranges behind the lilac clouds. The grass was bathed in the odd warm golden glow where you sat with him. As always, you had a picnic…
the wait
Day one, a no show. You make excuses, wonder if I’m only busy. Day two. Maybe I’m just busy. Day five. Possible illness? You give me a week.Life online is difficult. When the real one is constantly hidden. Hiding, isn’t lying. Not sharing is not because I love you less.Thoughts have a nature about them….
ambedo
═════════════════ Trigger Warning: Contains melancholic and dark themes A collaboration between @chorahae on Instagram and me(respectively). ═════════════════ I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ɪғ I ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ᴏғ ᴡʜᴇɴ I ʟᴏsᴛ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙɪɢ, ʙʟᴜᴇ ᴅᴇsᴇʀᴛ; ʜᴏᴜʀs ᴘᴀssᴇᴅ, ᴅᴀʏs ᴘᴀssᴇᴅ, ᴡᴇᴇᴋs ᴘᴀssᴇᴅ. I ᴅɪᴅɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏ sᴡɪᴍ ᴏʀ ᴡᴀʟᴋ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ…
aren’t you a fool?
Aren’t you a fool? To think you could soar the skies like a God, and feel the caress of the cold freedom against your cheek. Aren’t you a fool? To love the sea the heat, and the skies a little too much, a…
my mistake
“Utter not, please, lies. I’m tired of swallowing down disbelieving sighs.“ It is what I would have said, but I hold back. I misunderstood, it was my mistake. It’s not about distance. It’s not about hours. It’s not about you. It’s not about being selfish. It’s…
his colours
━─━────༺༻────━─━ His are the colours of light and all the rays and shades in between. His are the colours of love that which I wish to drape in laces of poetry around his fingertips. Fingertips that brushed in a lilting dance in hidden corners of my unassuming heart. His are the colours of the entire…
wishful thinking
Oh when he smiles— and I am sure, my heart has stopped. If only he knew of all the thoughts, his drawn pink cupid bows for lips do insinuate. If only he knew, how I ache for no one but him, his touch, and all the songs he could sing for me. And I ache…
indulge in me.
Outside my window the sky blushes pink and bruised blue, like the colour over my skin that was once painted by you. Does it shy watching the clouds embrace the hills this night in all their ethereal grace? Or us stuck in this elaborate waltz of the heart: a dance of aberrant pleasure? Of all…
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