blanket fort

it’s another lavender day, synapses sending tingles down my spine. i hope the clouds won’t turn to thunder, because i can’t take one more calamity in this house of cards, okay? so i’m gonna do my schoolwork, and try not to fall asleep. and maybe afterwards, i’ll build a blanket fort. if i feel up to it.

even though those my fairy lights ran out of battery. and i haven’t watered my plants, or checked my email for days. and maybe i should blame it on the humidity, because it always makes my hair look pretty, but for the first time in a while it feels like something good is beginning.

and that’s gotta mean something. that after all these months of staring out windows, and not having the energy, last sunday i did everything on my to-do list with time to spare. that the days stretch and expand to fit me, like the perfect sweater. and as i watch the frostbite recede from my fingertips, there’s the slightest temptation in my brain: that maybe, i could stay like this forever. come home from work and know that’s it, there’s nothing left to do.

wrap myself up in blankets, and watch a show, make a lazy dinner, read a book or two. and spend all the time i could, laughing about internet memes and inside jokes with you. thinking about sticky-sweet words i don’t know at to say out loud like you’re my family and i love you.

i sleep by the door, with my sword at the ready, and wake up covered in dew.


This is pt. 2 of me trying to capture a very specific mood via poetry–and generally pushing my comfort zone a bit. I’m going through this phase where being ridiculously cryptic and putting lots of symbolism into my writing is just my SHIT, I cannot get enough of it, and I guess now I’m just going to make it everyone else’s problem. 🙂

stowaway

i used to think there was an art to being quiet. sticking to the back row seats, and doing as i’m told, no more and no less. nodding along obediently. i’m doing good, aren’t i? because if i’m not, i swear to god i’ll make it up to you. i’ll write i’m sorry across the kitchen wall, etch it out in sharpie on my palm.

i’ll cry a quiet river when it won’t wash away, and lock myself in my room for days. until this sickness starts to fade. i’m good at that too, they say.

and maybe i’ll open the door, and show it all to you someday; the photos on strings, the posters on the walls. half-finished sketches, and poems, and that really bad song. i’ll speak in brilliant colours, and look you in the eye.

i’ll know what to say, and do, when you bandage the chip on my shoulder and lay out your broken pieces like a puzzle on my lap. i’ll find all the king’s horses, just you wait and see. i’ll carve myself a place in the world, and fit the role effortlessly.

but for now, i think i just need to be alone, wrapped up in blankets on a rainy day, and write myself dizzy. let my mind go blank. in the hopes that maybe, from that empty, something will appear. something good, and kind. something new. and i won’t run away this time. i promise you.