Where There Was Once Blood In My Veins, Cold Laughter Flows.

Splinter my dream into a web of cracks and gaps.

Take what little splash of anticipation I have pestering my rancorous mind and freeze it, immobilize me.

Take me where you want to go.

I am fickle with happiness. They say you don’t know a good memory is happening until it ends, but I do. I’m acutely aware of how precious the good times are—pair that with the odd feeling I get of being watched by my future self, having dealt with the deaths and tragedies that growing older brings, seeking refuge in the past. I feel anxious knowing it will be over, and that no matter how deeply and fully I cherish the strong legs beneath me, the wind on my face, my parents by my sides, it will end the same. All happinesses are doomed to be memories. And that bitters them for me; when I am at my happiest, and my smile is wide as it is earnest, I still taste the rancor in the back of my throat.

What is there to do but wait for everything to come crashing down in a sudden cold splendor, and remove the sand from beneath my feet.

There is something so magical about the bus boy’s dish cart. Coffee cups with cold wet sugar resting on their rims, plates with forks neatly splayed out on their porcelain cheeks, saucers holding old tea bags like newborn babes. Such a security in knowing the meal is done, and carried away, and nobody can take the conversations over your dinner table with them.

Am I denying myself happiness because I do not deserve it? Or because I am afraid that if I do, it will end anyways.

Our screams were never songs. Is that what you’ve been hearing all this time?

-Diary of a siren

What is love but the desire to feel sunlight through their skin. And hold there.

What secrets I would tell you if it would not take you drowning to hear them

-Diary of a Siren

I thought I’d miss my pinky finger more dearly but I can’t seem to manage it. The way her eyes lit up as her teeth dug just beneath my knuckle, I’m tempted to let her eat something else.

—Diary of a Siren

Maybe I am not good enough for most things, and I am meant only to look at all I want and yearn so deeply that my body begins to die.