It’s funny,
the way people get lonely
as the Autumn leaves fall down,
and hoping
that wrapping up in the warmth of a blanket,
it would be in the arms of a lover
You turned
my veins into flowers,
my ribs into fields,
and made my mouth
whisper the loveliest things,
but even the prettiest flowers
and the greenest fields
wither away
and the most beautiful words
are forgotten
when love
turns rotten
the thing you are most
afraid to write.

write that.
Nayyirah Waheed (via weissewiese)
If we grew apart,
how come I still feel your heartbeat
next to me at night?
growing pains
"Good morning," I say and turn to you.
The walls don’t answer.
You say I’m worth
the most beautiful promises
but love,
I’m only worth the promises you keep
hold my hand and tell me to stop
by pressing your smooth lips on mine
wrap my cold soul in your fleecy warmth
let me grow old with you
even just for a day
because some souls grow old
before the flesh
before the milk teeth fall out
even before leaving the gooey womb
and having to greet the cold world
so please,
hold my hand and shut me up
because my soul needs your soul
because your soul and my soul
are only complete
milk teeth

I remember when she first held my hand, kissed my knuckles and as she kissed each knuckle my blood rushed through my whole body in a way that it had never rushed before. It was like electric shocks from her lips, through my arm to my brain and finally to my heart, and in that exact moment, I knew what love was. I knew what lust was, I knew what passion was. I knew it all; the things poets wrote about, what people sang about, what artists painted about. Love. Love, love love. And there it was, in front of me, kissing my knuckles, kissing each knuckle gently and the air was crisp and I felt it bite through my clothes, but I was too drunk in love to care. Love was in me. Love that had a name: Violet.

Violet now was everything. Violet now was everywhere. She was with me from morning until night, from the first sunrays over my drowsy lips, until the moon shone through my window blinds. We, wrapped in love, wrapped in each other, listening to the breathing of eternal tenderness. Sometimes time is gooey and soft and gluey, some days time flows slower and minutes become hours, and she’s there; smiling, crying, laughing, touching.

Touching. Touching. Touching.


Gooey. Gluey.

My favourite colour will always be violet.

the violet haze
you will look in the mirror and you will not see yourself. and it’s not that you’ve changed, it’s not that your hair looks different or you did your makeup different than usual, it’s none of those shallow things. it’s deeper. it goes deep into your pores, sinks in through your skin, bites its teeth in your flesh and you will just look. you will look at yourself, and you seem older, not necessarily wiser because those two things are not mutually exclusive, but you know deep down, you have changed. your eyes are different. they are still the same pair of eyes you had before, the colour looks about right, you might even have the same scar next to your eye you got as a child when you fell from your mother’s hands (which she still regrets), there is nothing distinctively different, but you know something has changed. you can’t quite get the grasp of it, your lips curve the same, your nose still has the tiny bump, you still have a few freckles left from summer. you are still looking in the mirror. you are still looking. you are looking so hard you can feel your bones crackling and your spine curving. what is wrong. what is wrong, what is wrong and what is new. after what feels like a lifetime you come to the conclusion that you are still the same, your physique is over all the same, nothing has changed. nothing. your nose is still funny. your ears are still funny. your two bottom teeth still crook funny. it’s deeper, it’s beyond the things you can see, maybe it’s your soul changing. your inner self getting older, maybe wiser, and those two things are not mutually exclusive, meaning it sometimes happens and sometimes it doesn’t, but maybe it’s happening to you, who knows, maybe the mirror sees things you don’t see. maybe mirrors are portals to another dimensions, maybe we need to look through the looking glass and see what Alice found, through the keyhole, through the dark sea that’s maybe a metaphor for you: wild. raging. rough. you have the power of drowning men, making them grasp for air as they fall in, deeper and deeper into you and you have the power to either forget or to forgive. indeed, you are different. you are different, new, each and every day. your cells grow and die and die again and grow again, they keep changing, so do you. is a ship still the same ship when every wooden plank is replaced with a new one? indeed, you are like a ship. you keep changing. your ears are still funny but you change. you still have the same pair of eyes you had before. your mother still regrets letting you fall, even if it was an accident. your bones still crack, your spine still curves. you still get freckles in summer, you still have the same scars and there will be new ones coming, both shallow and deep, so deep your heart will feel them. you are you and you are new, each and every single day.
and then the moment is over.
you stop looking in the mirror.
you turn around, unlock your bathroom door, walk away. move on.