endofmarch:

Sometimes I have this fleeting thought of ‘I am good enough for this’. Then it slips between my fingers, not quite merging with my skin, like water and oil, leaving only its faint scent under my fingernails, in the creases of my pillow.

One day, I’ll find its freezing point, flash freeze it before it gets away and swallow it whole. Then it can melt inside my chest where it won’t get away.
Then I’ll think it and think it and think it, on and on

and I’ll believe it, too. 

endofmarch:

He made me a blanket fort.

Last year, when I was going reckless with sadness and panic, wondering constantly as to what I am doing, what I am suppose to do, what I want and the sheer conviction that I could never achieve what I want to achieve, he made me a blanket fort.

He set it out at the foot of the bed, so I could lean my back against it. He put a small foam mattress on the floor and covered it with a soft duvet. He made it just high enough to sit in it and made sure all chairs, all wood, everything that wasn’t soft and blankets and pillows, was covered.
He put a lamp there, and my computer, and a fan for when it got too hot. And then, he let me in, and pulled down the covers behind me, so that it was only me there, safe, in my own cocoon. 

I stayed in there for more than a week. Only coming out to go to the bathroom, or for food. I even slept there, and he never minded me not being with him in bed. I laid there watching all the episodes of Jeeves & Wooster, which proved almost as big a comfort as the fort itself, and movies and silly youtube videos. Sometimes he would crawl in with me, and hold me in his arms while we watched episodes of QI.

He never said anything. Never told me I should stop. Never told me to get over it, to get out of there already. So one day, I got out, looked around, and pulled down the fort myself, carefully folding all of the blankets, putting away the mattress and the chairs, putting back the computer where it belonged on the desk, sat there, and watched another movie. 
And that was that.

He made me a blanket fort, so I wouldn’t feel so lost, so I could feel safe, until I was able to stand on my own again. 

(about my love xxx)

endofmarch:

apparently
it does not suffice
to tuck yourself
away
in a suitcase

         (and get your hair caught in the zipper and
         chafe your skin against the leather and squeeze 
         your toes between
         the socks and ugly underwear, and block
         your ears, so they don’t hear
         the sharp, clear sound of the locks as they 
         close, with finality,
         no,) 

you have
to carry it 
too. 

endofmarch:

today.

endofmarch:

Girls with oxford shoes; girls with tattoos on 
their arms, like maps - the x marks the spot where treasure lies.
Boys with red lips; Boys with large hands and square jaws and lovely
treacherous eyes.
Crouching down behind bookshelves in a store, having a panic attack
and clutching at the spine of Great Expectations.
The irony is never lost on anyone, unfortunately.
Pages bruised and torn and sweaty fingertips on colourful covers, blinding with overwrought letters, cheerful comments - a classic; a masterpiece; a treasure for generations to come; forever the best. 

Girls that know better; Boys that know too much.
Poetry circles filled with cigarette smoke, fumbling touches against rock walls, backs arching like bows like
arrows flying to jab at skin and paint with blood and moaning
against the grass, against the stone, with bruises on pale hips and bite marks on shoulders.
Girls with toothy grins; Boys with well-pressed trousers.
And one more panic attack only witnessed by dead men, who knew nothing of the pain of carpet burns on bare knees.

(I don’t know what that is, but I’ve decided to keep it. Call it a writing exercise or something. I don’t know)

endofmarch:

hello crazy hair today :)
x 

July is making my hair all frizzy.

endofmarch:

All I can write about right now is heartbreak and longing. Sentences like:

I never loved you more than when you walked away, the sky molten gold on your back.

or

I kept staring at your lips, all red and bruised from my kissing, at the fascinating shade of blue the shadows under you eyes had.

or

The sound of the key in the lock, final and clear in the silence, the only sound I will ever truly remember.

or

I wish I had learned to say goodbyes. As it were, I was only good at being the one receiving them.

or

I wasn’t trying to be cruel, I was only trying to save the pieces left of me, before you trampled on them with your boots. All I did, though, was trampled on yours.

endofmarch:

I once kissed a boy under a palm tree. His skin was very dark and smooth under my fingers and I kept tracing the edges of his cheekbones with the tip of my nails. He had a sweet smile, vibrant and true. He spoke a language I barely understood.

I was sixteen. Of all the pretty foreign girls that were there he had come to me and talked to me and held my hand in front of the corner store. I was both charmed and skeptical, but decided not to care. We drank dark bitter rum from large bottles and danced in crowded dark rooms to Bob Marley songs. I tried my best to learn how to move my hips and my feet in sensual ways. I was always so stiff, my body like earth. I never could comprehend the fluidity of water, though I knew how to hold fire. He placed feathery kisses along my jawline and let me moved against him without once laughing at my inadequacy.

I left with a quick kiss on the cheek and a wave through the bus window. I never spoke to him again. But still, I remember his name and it makes me smile. And sometimes the wind blows the right way and I think I can smell sugarcane and pineapples, and when I do, I can almost still taste him on my lips, all sunshine salt and mango juice.

(reblogging some of my personal entries here. For safe keeping)