A Life In Blurbs

In my bedroom I trace back through every thought.
I feel the same way I have always felt. These thoughts never expire.
In my bedroom I’ve dreamt the same dream. The recurring scene that will never diminish. The theory of wish fulfillment is playing games with me. Never wanna dream these dreams if it means succumbing to the wave of disappoint upon wakening. 
I feel like a paper woman, caught in a hurricane. Growing soggier and soggier, reduced to mush but never ripping. A moving pile of sludge.
In my bedroom I’ve seen the same body. This body, my body, an unread diary of shame and yet pride, tears and yet laughter, insecurity and yet vanity, ups with many downs.
Here I am, caught in a time-loop. Reliving the same agony, the same epiphany, the same ascent and then subsequent descent.
But the loop is melting, the cycle is burning and now I am trapped on a plateau of bare minimums, a flat field of just “good enough” that never really hits the spot.
In my bedroom I’ve lost track of time. Each day the dream muddles the reality. So consumed by the melodies I’ve never heard, haunted by the moments I’ve never felt.
No amount of colours, lightbulbs or trinkets could overwhelm the barrenness of this bedroom. 

jalwhite:

notime4yourshit:

For those that need to be caught up:

Ramarley Graham: Site. Petition.

Rekia Boyd: Site. Petition. Facebook.

Trayvon Martin: Facebook.

Eric Perez: Site.

Neng Yang: Petition. Facebook.

Shaima Alawadi: Petition. Facebook.

Vern Traversie: Petition. Facebook.

Naomi Whitecrow: Petition. Facebook.

CeCe McDonald: Site. Petition. Facebook. Tumblr.

Agnes Torres: Petition. Facebook.

These petitions need way more signatures, ya’ll!

All of us are broken things,
With cracks and wobbles jangling about
Until we spill
Along the street.
Everyone avoids broken glass.

All of us are broken things,
Broken trinkets,
Broken wings.
I danced along a single thread
Fell to my death. But
No one said: “There she goes!”
No one grieved,
My demise was preconceived,
For broken things will always bleed,
And all of us are broken things.

Somehow I’ve seen,
The broke things fly,
Streaking glass along the sky;
Cutting the fabric of blues
And orange haze. The broke things
Soar higher, for through the rips
And atmosphere cuts,
The broke things
Do twist among the stars.

All of us are broken things,
But some did sing,
Some would sing.  

Turning wildly,
Flying freely
Dying slowly
When she held me.

Broken TV,
Static churning
She got naked;
We were burning.

Someone told me,
It’s the pity
That made her feel
You don’t deserve me.
You don’t deserve
A wreck like me.  

Something bleeding
Colours seeping,
While she’s sleeping
And the nightmares dancing.

We were restless
Couldn’t help it,
Had to weep
To suck out the poison.

Something’s dying,
It’s the dream
The same gone to static
On the TV screen.
Two people, careless
Happy, wedded
Bedded, now forgotten.

I am rotten,
You just whither
She never saw me,
I never saw her.
The whole thing unraveled
In our dreams.  

It never really happened. And now it’s over.

It never really happened, and yet I feel, a profound sense of sadness to know that it’s over. It never really happened, but somehow, my body shakes with withdrawal. It’s all over now, so where am I to go?

As I catapult from all the things that never really happened, the pauses in between are all blank spaces, wastelands of time where there was no feeling. And in those destinations, the things that never really happened, I was immersed in feeling. 

To feel. Something. Something stirring. Isn’t this what we live for?

It never really happened, but I’m wondering where it all went. How did it die? Why did you leave? Though you were never really there, I find myself wanting to grab you by the shoulders and shake you, rattle your bones until you answer my question! Why did you abandon me?

I float in the limbo in between. Lost and purposeless, sad but uselessly. I dwell here after the initial coming-down of the demented high that is giving up. I’m not sure what to do with myself here; how to fold my legs, where to put my hands, where to instruct my mind to wander. Nowhere to go.

It never really happened. But can you blame me for thinking it did? Wouldn’t you like to feel what never happened? Did you not have a time in your life where you were lost in the thing that never existed, where you were intoxicated by the feeling that never was, where you were trapped in the memory that never really happened?

I am locked there all the time.

It never really happened. But now it’s over. I have my feet, my legs, my body, but absolutely nowhere to go.