| i've written pages upon pages trying to rid you from my bones |
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| 01:30am 27/08/2008 |
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and if you don't love me, let me go.
Forget everything you think is real.
Forget everything you think is a lie.
Forget everything, in general, in order to spare the survivors.
Sliding into bed at night, she could stop feeling a hand sliding around her waist, warm breath pestering the back of her neck and legs tangling with her own. She could see kitchen floors and counters without memories, she couldn't hear certain songs without remembering warm skin and a fast heart and remembering the way she lay there thinking this will always mark this but most of the things she swore would be burned into her are already nameless and tuneless, now it is stupid and meaningless except for the way her heart catches with papers and planes, getting caught at the border with visas in my name.
It's cruel. It's unfair. It's life.
She'll never be younger, she'll never be innocent. Mouths will always play false hope and fingers will always lie; her first instinct is never to meet the eyes of who she fucks because nothing that happens there is real when someone feels her burning from the inside. She's breathed into mouths before, i fucking love you, do you know that, i love you, i do and it's ended in ashes and nothing and she wouldn't take it back except for the fact that it gets lonely when one only has phantom lovers to come home to.
And the list of things no one does for her because it would be WRONG it would be a LIE it would be CRAZY grow longer.
If you've never starved for human contact, she whispers, if you've never chosen the worse alternative on purpose, then you have no business lecturing me. |
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| 01:28am 27/08/2008 |
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She's waking up out of habit, it's true.
This isn't a problem, though, because it means she survived another night. She empties the ashtray, throws away empties, and washes the black from her feet while she pretends that none of is real (because the realer it is, the faker it feels) and smiles all day even if half her mouth quirks up on transit because that just makes her look curious and interesting. Which she is, though not in the way others tend to think.
You thought she was these things, once, and you'd swear she is even still but she will never again believe your heart is in it. |
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| 03:02am 10/02/2008 |
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Sometimes, distance is not enough.
There is time and there is space and there is the dullest of memories, but that doesn't mean there is peace. Will thinks that maybe he should have learned this lesson in his youth but he is still young, for all that he feels like he has lived for too long. He thinks about her in dark moments. Ashes and saline, violins and guitars and piano mingling in the background, strands of hair that made him laugh at what they represented and what they absolutely misunderstood. It feels good to laugh, it's a sound he hasn't heard in a long time and he almost smiles. |
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| XVII |
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| 03:54pm 11/12/2007 |
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I've been working on this for a while, but it isn't entire at all here and it won't be. Some things aren't meant to be.
there is something here that i doubt most people will follow, looming in the back as a shadow and completely unconnected to the actual meaning but still, well, maybe not entirely. if you get the title, you get it.
( xvii ) |
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Read 1 - Post |
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| pieces of sky - beth orton. |
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| 04:17pm 12/05/2007 |
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When you wake up at night, somtimes you think she should be there. She slept fitfully and rarely, well rested after a night with headphone on and you fell asleep to the sound of typing more often than not, but sometimes she would whisper with you and mumble to herself before gasping quietly during the night. Stiff-limbed, you knew she was nightmaring, but you never managed to wake her up without being angry at her for being out of peace. |
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Read 3 - Post |
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| 10:40pm 24/04/2007 |
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I might have an ideaaaaaa.
One for a one-off and one for an actual story.
That's two ideas, bitches. SUCK IT. |
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| Ha, |
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| 03:36am 24/03/2007 |
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So, I opened up this LJ today and found this as a saved draft and HEY why not.
and that's what you get for falling again
Snap off the radio because she don't need to hear this shit. You cut your eyes over at her and sure enough, she's got this pretty look on her face that says she's heard something of herself in there and knows to leave well enough alone. The streaks on her face are dry, salty and later he'll lick them up and then give them back in a day or two if she's lucky. You know the pattern by now and figure if you don't get over to your place sooner then he won't call and you'll have her for a few days longer than usual.
That's his pattern. Call three hours and then wait two days. If there is still no answer or, even more unlikely, if she's still upset, then he calls every twenty minutes and brings flowers by with a change of clothes. You hate him but you hate her more because she's never held out after he comes by. |
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| 03:36am 15/03/2007 |
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CANT
WRITE
OMG
HATE |
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