a day in the life · writes

I’m Growing Up

What’s it like to grow up?

Do you notice it like the way you notice the bags under your eyes when you first wake up? Is it like a killer migraine after a night of being drugged up? Fucked up?

Or is it like a germinating seed, just sown 1/4 ” deep, blooming on the night of a midsummer’s eve? 

Is it beautiful? Does it feel good? Does the world make more sense now? 

Does it hurt? Did it always hurt or did it hurt when you finally decided to grow up? 

Do you choose if you grow up or not? 

Can you stop it from happening? Should you stop it from happening?

I think it’s like a beauty trend. The next hot seller, fresh out the market, the most popular thing to wear during summer. And we obsess like there’s no tomorrow, grabbing greedily at something we don’t even understand. We think we do, but we don’t. 

No one can comprehend the responsibility of growing up. No one can take the responsibility of compensating all the petty white lies, heart breaks and heart aches, migraines, and empty promises. The cold stares, being unawares, hollow kisses, and negligence. No gift of money or proud compelling or acceptance can heal what has been severed and mangled. 

And you ask me, ‘”What should I do?”‘

I cannot give you an answer to your question, unfortunately. Because what you asked is something a “grown up” should already know what to do.

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how i lost her with love letters

My heart goes still as the walls of my temple crumble, as my knees buckle beneath me

I can still feel my sight blurring, my lips trembling, 

a burning 500 degrees that spreads across the face like a hay fever, a wild fire.

I remember the stiffest of nods and straightest of faces, ignorance painted over my mouth and eyes so thick enough to give me lead poisoning.

I can’t stand to hear her voice in my head, 

it drives me mad with a pleasure to see her die, a desire to see her break down and cry

to see the mascara smudge into her eyeballs and blood veins webbing towards her pupils

to slather and scramble her insides with my bare hands, her organs mixed up puzzle pieces I wave across the floor as messily as I can.

But she is in one piece, alive and healthy, hated by few and loved by many. 

I wish I could say I never loved her, that I never worshipped her beauty and envied her tongue,

but that is all a lie.

Because in the end, even if I crave her blood, I crave her attention much, much more.

writes

I Told Him.

I told him

I don’t believe in happy endings,

I don’t believe in joy,

But he laughed and said

I was being silly

Because he sees me smile so often

I rolled my eyes and looked at him straight,

My eyes boring into his own,
And what he saw made his grin drop

And so he left me alone.

writes

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

writes

Prince of Ink Stains and Soft Wind

He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.

They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.

Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.

And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth. 

They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.

He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones, 

Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.

writes

Ode of A Luna-tic

To my dearest,

Its been quite some time since we last spoke, almost nearly a decade. It’s been so long that I’ve started to forget what you sound like.

I truly miss you, dearest. Every time the night draws near, during the deepest hours where everything becomes still, that is when I think of you the most. Your silvery hair and night-dyed eyes keep me awake. I see them imprinted in the air, floating towards the ceiling. I know that isn’t you up there, but sometimes, when I’m lying in bed alone and thoughtless, I reach my hand out to your apparition only to be met with your figure distorting like a dissipating fog.

Why must you torture me like this? Plaguing my mind during the night when the sun is no longer up high to guard my thoughts from you? It has been so long that I would hope to have forgotten you completely by now, and yet, here you are. Not quite alive, but not quite dead either. A marble statue in the core of my memory, standing tall and ever present. I can speak and beg and cry to you all I please, but I will only be met with an empty stare, lifeless chest, and cold marble skin.

Oh dearest how I long to see you once more. To hear your bell-like voice chime through my ears and send shivers down my spine. To sing me to sleep with your dreams that float from your mind and prance onto your lips.

But you are gone, dearest. Yes you are gone and never to return to my arms for you were never there to begin with. All I have is the light that shines above my head when the night comes by, lights that dare not interrupt the suns daily course. These lights I shall remember you by each time I lay my head and peer out the window. And the moon, yes the moon. May the moon be my reminder that, somewhere, you are waiting for me, up high in the sky like a celestial body deep in slumber.

So goodnight my dearest, I feel much less alone now. May you rest fitfully and may you dream the sweetest of dreams for me. May you be bright, my dearest, and if your light does cease to shine one day (as it someday will), I shall take you in my arms and shine for you.

– Ode of A Luna-tic

writes

An Ode for the Girl Who Glared At Me

Do you know what it’s like to cry for a stranger? It’s the strangest feeling in the world, my heathens… I’ve done it before, many years ago. I wish I could do it now. The only feeling I can manage now is a slightly more empty soul and a feeling of restlessness.

Her sensations still linger as wisps and fragments in the places she used to sit, in the people she used to speak to…

I didn’t love her. She was just another voice in a room, another hilarious pun in the hush and stillness of awkward confusion.

But her absence still has weight. A weight that can be passed by on a mere glance but the more you focus on it, the heavier it gets.

I barely knew the girl who glared at me those many years ago. Her slim, petite figure and flaxen hair are all worthy of the minuscule memory she has in my mind. The jumpy eyes and bored-to-death tone mingled with her baggy hoodie and sweatpants that hide a lightly blemished face, every detail becomes more obscure the less she is here.

I barely knew her, my heathens. Barely. All I know of her are the whispers of her friends and the slight movements of her falling out of chair from the corner of my eye. That is all I will ever know.

We may not have known much of the other, but I will still hang my head for her. The dead deserve respect, my heathens, from the unorthodox to the unspeakably plain. All life is meaningful and the extinguishing of it must be commemorated.

So hang your heads, my heathens. Close your eyes and send her fleeting soul your best of wishes, your fickle goodbyes, for when the time comes when she can no longer be sought, she will be totally and absolutely gone.

-Cap

In honor of A.