Note #9

Letter #6

"You really hurt me." Fuck, I wish I could say that to you. I want to tell you "I wished you were better" And hear you say "I'm sorry." like you mean it. My love of you is a laceration across my chest Visible to everyone who meets me, Stinging at every change of the winds. It likes to bleed out at night. The kitchen sink is stacking higher, Soon the laundry pile will join. Sometimes I still see your ghost in the mirror, Staring back at me with empty eyes. I guess I'm in another one of my rutts again It just all feels so pretentious and aimless "You really hurt me, but I hurt me more." The truth is a harder pill to swallow.

Date Written: 10th of August, 2023

Letter #24

Please rip this heart from within my chest

Just as you carelessly tore your way inside

Begging for mercy, please, let me breathe

My dear, you must be a skilled sadist

I cannot handle another thought of you

Falling seems an apt term for it indeed

Yet you smile brightly, so wholly unaware

As I pull at strings asking how this is fair

Painfully puzzling with no answers to find

Accepting that maybe, just maybe

Between us, peace was never an option

Date Written: 17th of September 2023

Letter #1

My body is defectively failing me Heart malnourished to the point of dysfunction Visions of past flood out my sockets Closing my eyes is impossible now We have passed the station Keep moving or die The clock ticks through tidal waves of thought What is touch without vibration What is a face without it's pores A hand rested on my cheek Gentle, soft, unassuming I could feel myself falling into it eternally But it stays only to taunt, maliciously linger Skin unfit for connection Calcified bones rotting deep Is the infection really to blame What no vitamins could repair My veins are cut thin Blood drips running ever thinner Would I still picture your face When I hear the passing of time asking for it's final embrace This ache runs deep within my chest I'm not so sure I did my best

Date written: 30th July 2023

I'm not good at this whole poetry thing, but hey, got to start somewhere. I hope that sharing this first post can be a good first step working towards that. Writing is kind of how I journal and since I don't share any of this with the people who know me, I can let myself be truly honest and just bleed through the ink until I feel better. It's cathartic, I like that. Ty to anyone who read this, it's nice to feel heard. :) ( I haven't used tumblr in so many years, oh god, am I doing this right? )

Honest to whatever gods may be out there waiting on me, I love being the big spoon. I love wrapping myself around you as you chirp and sigh in your sleep, an enchanting orchestra of early morning comforts sung from the careful ridges of your spine. I love when you curl into my side in search of safety from the world, assured with no doubts that nothing bad can ever reach you beneath my loving gaze. I love the gentle kisses you'll place down my cheek to my neck as I bring you breakfast in bed and wake you up slowly to the quiet melodies of your favourite song. A private exhibition of love, learnt how to play on my old beat up guitar just for you. And though the duct tape on its sides warps the sound and there is a slight pressure placed on my heartbeat as I vulnerably share such an armature rendition - when you tell me you have never felt more loved, I decide to make a habit of my foolery for as long as these breaths shall last.

Date Written: 17th of November, 2023

Letter #8

My little daffodil, Resting all alone without any sunlight. What's given you that might? How many demons were you made to fight? Do you know there's no end to what I'd give In the mere hope that it'd help you feel alright? Because I'm sat here, chest clenched tight Pleading with the harshness of the night. "If only the stars would give some heed to this weary plight" "If only my warmth through unconditional love you'd requite" Your petals shine so bright, Resting all alone with the moonlight. Always so close to that beautiful, unifying sight But never quite.

Date Written: 12th of August, 2023

At sunset, the foxes come scraping by her doorframe Phonelines caught up in rasping growls each night Faint echos of the past hares reverberate through Escaping from their throats, swallowed but whole Crying out to her; A plead to run, abandon her home "Foxes will only be as gentle as nature allows But the wilderness is violent, unforgiving and cold And you are the warmth chosen to fill their stomachs" Cautioned words come to a total on the rabbit's tongue Before teeth gnaw away through flesh, pooling blood Desperation and child-like innocence lose every fight They cannot satiate feral hunger, for she is small and cute "How lovely you are." The perfect portion, beloved meal Reduced down from a girl resting in her mother's arms To a cake sitting pretty in a baker's front window, malleable At sunrise, the foxes quietly leave. They never took a bite Yet she finds the orange fur taunted on her bedside Arms scarred, pores filled with sweat. Lost of all breath Strung across red soaked floorboards, a vivid reminder Tomorrow they will come again at the moon's first light And slowly, without urgency, left in her withering silence She will learn to play dead, envying the rabbit's screams

Date Written: 10th of November, 2023

A garden?

A garden?

Gardener perhaps

Or listener .

I see many flowers and their whispers

So much plants to grow and water with teardrops.

I can see the beauty and care.

And the soil it has.

Many songs they sing and sang

Some are dark, some pale

Some have other colors.. some are frail.

I better water them more.

Because season ends

A helping hand

And a garden box

Few drops of salt for you

So i can look at you more

Listen to your bruised song

Your blues, self inflicted bemuse

Until i see the next flower bloom

While i clean the garden with a broom

Perhaps you are a rose with a perfect prose.

Because your petals just rose up

I have to hose your soil and roots more

To see you once again before summer ends.

Nothing else but muses, a place so safe

Like a museum full of plants

And each has their own special chants.

By Marko Tivanovac

(it was)

The uncertainty was a razor

Perched at the apex of my throat. 

I could never quite tell if it was love

And I suppose that now I will never know.

“It’s about who you miss at 2 in the afternoon when you’re busy, not 2 in the morning when you’re lonely.”

— Unknown

Letter #14

Hands sinking from this intrinsic weightlessness These contradictions spill out of me With every rhythmic throbbing of the arteries As though it were inherently innate to lose reason Reluctancy claimed it's vested right to my chest The thought bringing it all into perpetual deliberation An impending consequential end to touch Like a clock continuously thrust into resetting Hands disheveled, scraping, tired Sinking.

Date Written: 20th of August, 2023