meep

We are not equations.
We can’t operate
ourselves into clarity.
The sum of our parts is not
equal to our existence.

I am not the value of x.
I cannot be reduced into an entity.

I am not Fat
any more than I am Bone;
but I possess both.
I am not Beauty
nor Ugliness;
but I boast each.

I am not perfect.
I am not imperfect.

I don’t have to be half an opposite.
I don’t have to be a part of speech.
I don’t have to be explained.

There are more words
in the world
than people;
so why would I choose
to be just one?

i wish that i was water

so that i could slide between your lips,

rush through your pulsing veins,

and so that you could live off of me

for a change.

If I could press my lips to yours
and leave them there forever
I’m sure I’d find a way
to turn love
into oxygen.

my toes get cold when

I sleep alone in bed but

tonight you are here. 

My fingers look so
much lovelier when they are
brushing against yours. 

scribblingoutofthelabyrinth:

submitted by upsidebarcodes

There’s something so instinctual in loving you. There’s something inside of me that perks up at your voice, your face, your smell… something that reacts and knows that I belong to you absolutely; my body knows to be restless without you. When I’m with you it’s like everything is in stop motion, cut into little moments of film-grained beauty. I see your lips and the stubble on your chin, your teeth as you speak, as you turn your head up to look into the endless blue sky. The warm air stirs a few strands of hair on your face and another wave crashes over me; I’m beneath the water now and I’ve lost my hold on everything in the world. I’m floating, just floating aimlessly in the choppy surf. But your hands plunge through the water and grip me, hauling me up into your arms. You press kisses all over my face and neck and you ask if I’m all right; everything’s back to bits and moments where I see your beauty suspended in my pupils as they try to take you in. It’s glorious and I whisper the words “I love you” to myself and I hope that you can feel them as they reverberate through my skin. 

It’s something that is truer than I ever could have dreamed up. It’s our own little infinity.

I want to talk about this trend where people post pictures of girls with cancer and talk about how beautiful they are. They usually accompany another picture of a girl with long hair and makeup, etc; and the caption that the other girl is not really beautiful.

Let’s get something straight: you are lying. You do not truly find the girl with cancer to be more beautiful 9/10 of the time because you are not aspiring to look like the girl with cancer. You feel bad for the girl with cancer, you pity her, and you think it makes you look like a good human being if you say that she is super beautiful. And at the same time, you continue to try to make yourself look more like the other girl.

People with cancer don’t want your pity party most of the time. They usually don’t like it if you’re a stranger who knows nothing about them and yet wants to tell them how strong and brave they are for fighting off their cancer; they’re just dealing with their disease and their life as best as they can, and unless you know them personally, you should just let them go on their way and stop embarrassing them with overly-zealous compliments on their character and appearance that you either do not or can not mean.  

If we’re going to pity people and think it’s okay to make up for that by saying things that we don’t mean, then why aren’t you telling people with heart disease or diabetes that they are “so beautiful and strong” ? 

I’m not saying it isn’t good to support those with disease. I think it’s great. But don’t say things you don’t mean out of pity, and don’t comment on the character of someone you’ve never met. You’re probably just making them feel worse in the end.

Our ten-month anniversary is in five days and that’s really amazing to me because I met you almost a year ago. I never would have guessed that a year after meeting you in a tinychatroom, you’d be here with me. You’d watch my graduation and meet my family, and we would be a couple. I didn’t know that when I watched your face through a webcam and a shaky internet connection. I didn’t know that all of this would happen; I didn’t guess any of it would.

But now, when we talk, you make it all sound so sweet. Not everything with you is perfect, but it’s always worth it. You’re more than I ever could have asked for or wanted, and you try so goddamn hard. You’re so sincere and funny, sexy and smart and absolutely right for me. You make things feel permanent. That’s nice. People are always walking out on me, and yet here you are, reminding me that we have years. Years and years.

And I know it’s really hard sometimes, and I know I can be a pain.

But I love you so much more than I ever thought I could.

________________________________________________________

You put everything in black and white, and I guess I’m trying to show you that I can do that too.

Because you told him that I got fat, and maybe you told him I got skinny. And maybe it doesn’t matter either way, because we’re not on terms to argue about it anyways; that’d require talking to each other. It would require your acknowledgement that I’m not dead.

Regardless, you put that in black and white. Maybe it wasn’t true and maybe it was, and maybe it’s all a matter of opinion. Now I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to reply with, trying to figure out what gray scale fits me.

The only thing I can think of is that even if I fucked you over, and even if you were mad if there was someone horrible and mean behind these childlike eyes that apparently had you fooled, he fucked you over too. The difference is that he’s going to keep fucking; I’m done with it. You and I both know these things. It’s part of who he is, and you aren’t going to change that. And I only made a mistake in event, not in habit. Which is the difference that makes the difference, despite the choice that you made after mine.

So that’s my black and white of the day.

scribblingoutofthelabyrinth:

You write all of these things without capitals or periods, and god forbid that you recognize the existence of a comma. Then you throw us for another loop by throwing in this stupid habit of yours where you use big words that no one really understands. I guess you could say that I’m just too dumb to understand, but that point would be moot by the end of the paragraph. Because it doesn’t matter how big the words get, or how much you deviate from your initial or final point; this isn’t how you speak and this isn’t how you think. And the honest version of you is better than this over-intelligent bullshit.

People like your words, sure. They might just nod and look enthusiastic because they’re trying not to let on that they can’t comprehend a single fucking thing that you wrote; but then again, I genuinely believe that there are plenty who love what you’re saying. I’d like to consider myself a part of that mass. Your ideas are good and your conviction is drenched in gold. But I’m trying not to lie either, and honestly I hate what you write. It isn’t you, and you’re trying to convince us all that it is. Where are you going with this?

A simple sentence: the dog pissed on my shoe.

That’s all you need. Yet there’s no fucking way that I can tell you to calm down your literature, that it’s bursting at the seams of your body. It’s leaking into your socks to join the dog piss, and mixing into this vile concoction of opinion and anger (and maybe a little bit of drugged blood.)

I can’t tell you this because I do not exist.

God forbid that either you or I admit how much we miss each other in the short moments of clarity between doses of what each of us has chosen to take.

And I guess that I’ve missed the point too; because all I’ve been wanting to say this whole time is that I’m really fucking sorry for what I did to you.

scribblingoutofthelabyrinth:

submitted by upsidebarcodes

You’re lying in the bed when I walk in. You’ve curled up around yourself a little bit, your body probably wondering where the heat of mine has gone.

I tread over and pull your sweatshirt off of my shoulders. I throw it into my pile of clothes, wondering if you might let me keep it. The bitter air of the room licks its way up my back quickly, biting at the skin uncovered by my orange tank top. Quickly, I yank off my socks and jeans, stripping down into underwear. The bra goes too.

There’s nothing sexual about me stripping; at least there isn’t at this moment. You’re asleep and I only want to press more of my skin against yours without dragging the chilled fabrics of my clothes beneath the sheets.

I tiptoe over to where you are lying and slide myself beneath the duvet. My feet automatically find yours, rubbing against them and trying to steal some of their warmth. Still asleep, you automatically adjust your body to accomodate mine. Your arms wrap around me and I push my face into the crevace between your neck and shoulders that I fit into so well. I feel your legs scratching against my smooth ones, and I try to slow my breathing until it’s silent.

You sleepily murmur something into my hair and I kiss the skin that’s stretched over your collar bones. You’re so beautiful in this moment; and I know you wouldn’t know what to make of it if I told you you’re beautiful. You’d think I meant your body or your face.

I mean the way that the light falls on your cheek through the gap in the window. The way that the air sounds as it moves in and out of your lungs, elliciting small noises from your throat. The way that your hands are wrapping around mine and clutching at skin. The way that you’re so vulnerable, and so open right now at this moment.

I’ve told you that I love you too many times. I’m starting to worry that it will lose meaning. But I don’t know how else to get this swelling out of my body.

You’re mine, and it’s all I can do to say I love you.

I hope that’s enough.

When Kurt was here, we spent a few nights out at my mom’s bar. We were there for karaoke one night, and after making a milk run at 7-11 to slow down a drunk for my mom, she asked if I’d participate because not many people were. I didn’t really want to. Don’t care much for karaoke.

But whatever. After a few other bartenders asked, I went and signed up. And then came back to Kurt at our table, ate some of his Reese’s Pieces, and informed him that he was up next to sing.

Obviously, he flipped out and threatened to leave the bar. ehehehehe. It was totally worth it.

Anyways, my turn came around and I got up on stage and sang some shitty, shaky version of a song from the 2000s. It wasn’t particularly good. Not like everybody-in-the-bar-gets-quiet-to-hear-me-sing sort of thing. 

Yet Kurt kept looking up at me like he was proud or something. And I wondered that whole night what it would be like to look out and see him in the crowd during one of my real performances. If he’d be impressed by my arias at contest or my piano at concerts.

I wish he was here for all of that.

When I was seven, they told me that I could be anyone I wanted to be.

When I was fourteen, I found out that simply wasn’t true. I wasn’t particularly pretty; count prom queen out. I wasn’t particularly charming; count president of any organization out. I wasn’t particularly funny; count class clown out. I wasn’t particularly sporty. Or sporty at all, actually. I wasn’t particularly sociable; you can reasonably count me out for everything, in fact. But I thought that maybe I could be the smartest.

I guess that’s when I started acting dumb.

See, there’s always a winner. I, unfortunately, am not a winner. When I decided to be the smartest, it was okay because people would pretend to like me for the sake of my brain. They’d let me help them with their French and algebra homework. Then my breasts dropped in and my hair grew out, and suddenly my face wasn’t so bad. So I was suddenly in the wrong mold altogether, so they stuck me with a jock and put me on Homecoming Court, and that was supposed to fix it.

Until it didn’t.

Because I still wasn’t particularly sociable or funny or charming. I was just me. And that wasn’t enough to hold the position that my face and body warranted; not to say that I was absolutely outstanding in either respect. Just above average for my school.

I went back to my studies, and eventually found someone who could deal with my moods and thoughts and problems. He could calm down my temper, force me to let go of stress, and even make me feel happy. I didn’t feel so awful about my scars anymore— inside or out.

I forgot for a little while that the odds weren’t stacked against me, because for once he made me feel like they weren’t. Yet, behind everything sweet that he can tell me, I am still not a winner. I’m not going to be the smartest or the most hard-working; I’m not the nicest by a long shot. I don’t know if he’ll stay with me long enough to keep me even a little sane; and I guess I’ll probably lose the desire to win after I lose my sanity. Where will I be then?

I’m not anything, really.

And that just doesn’t feel so good.

You’ve spoiled me.

Read More