I bet if I could reach up and touch the sky, it would feel like velvet.
I would grab it in great big fistfuls and lick my fingers clean because the aroma of blackberries would be too sweet to resist.
Every time my fingertips would run through it, trails of phosphorescent stars would fall in lines behind.
I would leave long stripes of twinkling glitter across the black, which planes and planets would fly between, blinking red and blue.
The silhouetted treetops would tickle my chin as I would trace a map from the Big Dipper to Polaris, from Taurus to Cassiopeia, to everywhere and back again.
Silence would fill my ears and clog the air where I’m sitting, and I would cry with dark smears of fruit across my cheeks and a soft sensation against my palms because this purple universe we live in has no boundaries.
I cannot love.
I cannot feel.
I do not know
what’s right or real.
I’m broken like
a piece of glass.
I’m useless like
a piece of trash.
Nothing here is beautiful and everything is wrong.
It was a brutal honesty that you knew all along.
Every time I cried to you, exposing my distress,
you shrugged the shoulders I cried in. You couldn’t have cared less.
And every time I remember when it felt so right,
Dreams where we are friends again give me chills at night.
You bruised me with your words and looks until their pleasure died,
and yet, their ugly memory will still kill me inside.
After all this history it’s hard to feel strong.
Nothing there was beautiful and everything was wrong.
Busy, busy, busy. That’s me all the time now that summer’s over. I don’t have time to do all kinds of things I got used to doing every day, including (but not limited to) posting on mikkiaaron, jamming out, and working on my writing. Being constantly busy is emotionally and psychologically draining, filling me to the brim with complete and utter apathy when I do have time to do those things. Usually, I’ll just go to bed early instead.
Ironically, on the weekends, there is absolutely zero to do. Those are the days when my friends are busy, busy, busy. Either I need some new, less-busy friends or some better plan-making skills, or maybe both. Those are the days that I could be doing something productive, including (but not limited to) adding the next installment to my epic up-and-coming novel that’s turning out marvelously thus far (yeah right, Mikki, how many times have you said that before?).
But, seriously. I’m turning into a lump that occasionally grunts. My general workload has incapacitated me from any real activity, such as physical activity or social activity. Overall, it’s taking every ounce of me to cope with the lack of summer/free time, and it’s not pretty.
Ciao for now,
I am in love with the back of his head.
I am in love with his hourglass neck
that tapers off into a balloon of clean, brown hair,
that I want to run my fingers through.
I am in love with the times when he stands up
and his wondrous skull soars into the sky,
like a tower in a short city, pronouncing its own glory.
I am in love with the way his silhouette glows
when something bright flashes against it,
showcasing his beauty in the darkness.
I am in love with this view from behind
being all of him that I need.
I want somebody to be in love with me.
I want the joy of waking up each morning and thinking, “Today is going to be a great day, because someone is in love with me.”
I want somebody to be in love with me not because they think that I’m pretty or attractive, but because they think I’m beautiful.
I want to be beautiful in someone else’s eyes, inside and outside, because they love to see me so much that I become the ultimate beauty.
I want someone to listen to my next crazy idea and think it’s not so crazy.
I want somebody to want to wrap his arms around me because he means it.
I want the feeling of being needed, because just one look at me can make his day.
I want him to wake up every morning and be glad to have me.
I want him to be in love with me.
I want him to be you.