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alis volat propriis

what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

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bruh, you’re something else.

Sometimes, social media gets the best of me and I wind up over posting, over sharing, and virtually over begging the universe to not forget me.
But I don’t regret it.
I’m lucky enough to be able to look back and scroll through pieces of my life like reconstructed mosaic art and remember some of my most royally precious memories.
It is not hard to say and to sincerely mean that everything that is bad feels like specks of floating dust among the breadth of all that is good. And dear universe, I have lived such a good, good life so far.
I am so thankful.

Thank you for loving me. I’m doing my best to make it up to you.


You plead not guilty to all charges again.
You forget that most of last year is still rotten in my mouth.
You forget I can still taste the chalk outlines
under my tongue in the mornings.
You forget that the caution tape still hangs across my bed
like a warning for anyone trying to save me.
You forget that crime scenes and home
smell the same to me these days.
Like smoke. Like metal. Like empty.

Your mouth is the burial ground and the battle field.
Most war zones avoid being loved
but these lips remember your bloody kind of sacred.
Your teeth are tombstones with the names unreadable.
Your teeth are tombstones with the dates scratched out.

You morphed my voice into a leaking faucet.
You pushed me into rooms with no way out.
You led me to corners with music boxes
that only played your name.
You strung together cobwebs and
shadows that whispered like you.
Like please and more and yes.
Like kiss me and don’t and again.

There aren’t as many ways to forget someone
as you think there are.
So I set my house on fire
until your footsteps are only smoke and charcoal.
So I almost forget not to stay as it burns.
So I stop picking up the phone.
So I leave town and change my name
and learn not to talk about the mistakes
I fell in love with.
About the monster I fed with my own skin.


Crime Scenes & Left Over Love Affairs | Yasmin & Ramna (via inkywings)

I am constantly rewriting the chapter that you are the main character of. Some days, it is a cosmically projected love story and others, it is a long drawn out tragedy.
For some reason, both versions of the story remain equally honest.
I’m still trying to figure out if you are the hero or the villain of the journey. I’m still trying to figure out how it ends. Part of me thinks that it never will. How do you end a chapter of so many unspoken words?

I write about a girl who sank into something so unknown - too fast - and how sometimes it feels like she is still sinking deeper - like her ankles are tied to an unforgiving, rusting anchor. I write about a boy who tried to swim through quicksand and how he is still finding mud in his boots - like finding lost change in your pocket at times when you really don’t need it. In those cases, anchors and change are just so, so heavy.

Nowadays, I think of you with a lot less intention and a lot less grief. I think of you without this dire urge to start another royal battle to win your heart over.

Nevertheless, I am still always, always thinking of you.

Every time I go through old pictures and get sent into a whirlwind those endless and indelible memories, I’m also reminded that I’ve lived such a good, good life.

I am so thankful.

Tagged as: thank you, life,

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on"

William Shakespeare

"Become what you are."


"Maybe we pray on our knees because the lord
only listens when we’re this close
to the devil."

Ocean Vuong, “Untitled (Blue, Green, & Brown): oil on canvas: Mark Rothko: 1952,” published in Triquarterly (via lipfused)