you never read my stuff anyways

the only familiarity is the dust resting between and beneath the layers of books,

clothes, pens, bones,

and i cannot make myself write about you

nothing but silence–and maybe a few flames–pours out of my fingertips, and i can’t do this anymore

i think if i ignore it then it can’t hurt me; you can’t hurt me. stop curling inwards. hold yourself together.

there is work to do; more to write about

write. write. write. 

i have more words to speak that don’t make sense to anyone but myself

stitching and restiching my lips has become my favorite past time; i have refused even the slightest vibrations to escape my mouth for so long 

i no longer remember the sound of my own voice

hands

he makes my hands shake

more than they already do

oh my, do they shake and tremble–even when he is not anywhere near

and i do not know if that is a good or a bad thing

and it scares me more than the late nights i have to walk home by myself

or the darkness under the bed and in the closet that keeps me from sleeping

(because sometimes i am quivering yet still steady)

and i want him to know my heart

the crooks and crannies of my soul,

i want him to dive in deep, searching through years of oppression and

happiness and anger and fear and love

because when it comes to him

i swear i feel anxiety and calmness at the same time

i’m not even sure if that can happen

but it does and i’m as reckless as the moon when it appears in the daytime

because what can live without the sun even

if it perpetually burns everything in the end

and he is wonderful electricity that burns my lungs

but my breath catches in the pit of my stomach and i try to

breathe through my shoulders

and they warned me about electrical sockets

about not sticking my fingers into the wall outlets

it was engraved in my brain

but they had no idea about him and his heart

and–

“how did you do this to me?” he asks; she laughs and turns away

there’s this boy i know

with fragile lungs and broken ribs

like branches on the forest floor

his heart’s only protection is the skin that is perpetually fading

despite how long he opens his shirt towards the sun

towards the glow radiating from the soul of the one he loves

and then there is a girl 

with long flowing hair like a stream running through the middle of his forest

her soul brightens his path though it guides her into darkness

a natural curve dances on her mouth

a mischievous smile and a hollowed out soul 

acid tears never felt good until she laid eyes on him

the broken boy’s broken bones wrapped around the heart she didn’t have

how cruel of her to let him depend on her drunk affection

his love

the tenderness of his heart got lost somewhere beneath the surface of the earth

while she was digging her grave and 

he had no choice but to save her 

but no longer exist as–

my five worst habits

i have formed a habit of resulting to sleep aids;

non-habit forming

it’s laughable because everything becomes a habit–at least for me.

I. i saw my father bite his nails once (i tried once)

habit

II. washing my hair before my face

habit

III. we conversed for 42 days

habit

IV. apologizing for anything, everything

habit

V. drinking until your name doesn’t taste like blood

habit

going to sleep without aid seems impossible

my brain is a tub and you are the drain that my thoughts are forever circling.

i cannot drown on dry land

but suddenly–i am sick

again

like when you are on a crowded boat and the still horizon is nowhere in sight

your stomach is turning as if you were on an amusement park ride

your head is pounding and you are convinced that people next to you

can hear the drum beats of your brain against your skull

do you know what i mean?

that feeling?

that sickness?

then i remember i am on solid ground; waves do not thrust my body against rocks

jutting out of the earth

i am not spinning

but every blow to my center sends me crashing into a waterfall of emotions

my lips are purple

my hands are frozen (though they still shake)

and suddenly–i feel alive

as if the waves no longer loathed me and the ride ended

my skeleton rests on warm sand

like there is a switch inside that turns on desire

because i am so easily brought to life by someone else’s

love

i still have not decided if this is a fatal flaw or a beautiful gift.

why do we encourage kids to dream, but degrade whimsical adults?

i strongly believe that google maps & gps voices convince us young adults that we must have a destination in mind at all times;  it is crucial to know exactly where we are going with each nervous breath we take.  but maybe, perhaps, there is not only one path of life.  there is no specific purpose blinking on a marquee sign at the end of the road.  growing does not necessarily mean growing up.  falling down, bruised knees, bleeding elbows: maybe we get back up.  maybe i choose to stay on the ground for a while because i know that every moment has purpose.  i want to take a “faulty” turn & have my internal map quest re-route itself before realizing each individual corner glows with a different marquee.  a different lesson.  a new escapade.

while trying to unlearn things like calorie counting & holding doors open for people who will never appreciate it, we forget about the numerous paths offered before us.  fabrication makes for a functioning adult in society.  maybe i have decided not to abandon my daydreams.  i will no longer submerge my aspirations under quiet whispers in hopes that no one will point out my warped expectations.  i may still be learning new things everyday, but i know this— i look forward to growing, but not just up.

all the love, kp.

on being eighteen

i write too much about life for someone who is still a child;

at 18 years old, i am still too young but far too old–

what that means, i’m not sure yet

i am held together by the nights of no sleep

and the mornings of more coffee than water.

each day seems longer than the previous

which is how i know i am growing up;

“perhaps, this is our last time together” is all i hear from those who mean the most to me.

no:

growing up does not mean disappearing–

for once i  understand what it means to truly long for someone in

a totally platonic way.

they say the worst way to ruin your new journey;

the new phase in your life (adulthood)–

is to expect to have everything together and figured out.

you are enough, we are an entirely new universe

created solely for the purpose of crashing into the shores of life.

embrace the passions of youth because

sooner or later, passions turn into weak smiles and small talk with a bank teller.

xo,

kp

**disclaimer: image is not mine. words are mine.