I forgot why the fuck i wrote SHkeys on my hand this morning. I just noticed it again and immediately was like why is this familiar don’t i follow them on tumblr or something
when you and your buddy are low on potassium
I started writing a poem the other day
About wanting to thank my ex boyfriend
For giving me a spine
And teaching me to stand up for myself
Because I’ve always believed in silver linings
But I stopped writing it because I realized I was just lying
The truth is I’m still as spineless as I was when our relationship began
I never walked away from you
You walked from me
And I think that says a lot
When your abuser
Finds you boring
I don’t want to write another poem about you
The trees weren’t cut down
So I can write your autobiography
And read it to strangers like scripture
You were supposed to be a chapter
Not the whole goddamn book
And I think that says a lot about character
When I’m still writing about old news
I spent the summer in my therapists office
Where she started saying things like
And as she’s reciting the diagnoses to my parents,
I’m sitting on the couch thinking,
“You were right. I’m fucking crazy, but you know, shit happens, it builds character.”
But now I’m thinking
I’ve built up my character enough
To the boys who found out about you,
And pretended to be nice
Because they knew I was vulnerable
And saw me as damaged goods
Not good enough to date
But good enough for a night
I want to say fuck you
You knew I was going through hell
And you used that to get your fix
But I can’t blame you
Because I used you too
I wanted you to fuck the numbness out of me
As if that were even possible
I’m not going to lie to you and say that I found a spine while writing this poem
I mean, fuck,
I don’t stand up here because I’m whole
I stand up here because I think snaps and applause will somehow
Fill the void you left behind
I’m still damaged goods
i am not very good at much.
i cannot present to you the beauty i see in your eyes in the form of a painted canvas,
because the minute i pick up the paintbrush,
and begin to imagine the beautiful things i remember about you,
i get distracted for hours.
and fall asleep with my hand in the paint that is the exact colour of the golden morning sun shining through the blue.
i can’t sing for you,
because the second that i imagine my voice hitting your eardrums,
it begins to shake uncontrollably,
and every note i hit is flat,
and i cannot bear to think of such a noise ever making it’s way to you.
i cannot play for you,
because my fingers stumble over the keys when my thoughts venture over to how you sit,
i cannot write you a beautiful love letter,
because the pills the doctor gave me to take away the blackness
make my fingers so numb
that i could not for the life of me hold a pencil for long enough to draft up the words which come to mind when i see your face.
but i can use these numb fingers to brush the knots out of your hair.
i will use this shaking voice to talk to you as best i can without tripping over every word.
i will use these beautiful images in my head to remind you that you are perfect
when your day has become to much to bear.
i am not very good at much.
but i will be good to you.
What if this post was a picture of some fictional creature with an oblong face, and the text beneath it implied that the creature was popular British actor Benedict Cumberbatch? Would that not be very, very funny?
okay, but consider the following:
instead of saying his name, the text used some combination of letters and words with similar consonants to closely approximate his name