Moona-257 - Things Ive Lost On The Way Here

it’s a sweet little fantasy. the way life runs it’s fingers through my hair and tells me that good things come in threes. the way she tells me cooking is a form of love, that sunday mornings spent in bed is time well spent. that food from my home is the best I can get, all those spices and sweets and freshly baked delights. she tells me that I’ve been working so hard. that this obsession for success is a form of self destruction.

and honestly, I know it is. I know that I destroy myself for a system that could replace me as soon as I falter. but how. how do I find the balance between legacy and enjoyment. how do I hold the little bird between my hands without breaking her wing.

so I wake up early (even on sunday mornings) and force myself to be productive. I order takeout and remind myself to call my mother because I miss the taste of home. I realise the language of my homeland has faded on my tongue. and that I’ve spent so much time outside of the sun that my gold skin has lost its shine.

complacency has made me lose myself.

you hurt me. convinced me that the light that possessed our bodies was liquid love. ruined me. all that brightness ruined me. i have holes in me now. darkness poking through my skin and seeping from my bones. haunted now.

“Someone will tell you that she’s seeing someone someday and that she’s happy and your hands will stop working. You’ll have to work hard to hold onto whatever you’re holding. I hope it’s not glass, I hope it’s not breakable. Suddenly you’ll remember everything that you ever loved about her. Everything that ever moved you to tears, made your insides feel like they were tying themselves into knots. That she was loyal, that she was open for you, that she smiled against your mouth when you kissed. That it felt easy, like God had put the two of you together deliberately, like it had been the plan all along. But for whatever reason, you let her go and you thought that it was the right thing and for a little while, it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing. Except now all the parts of you that touched her knows that you’re never going to be able to touch her again and that hurts. Even your fingers are sad, even your stomach is aching from the loss of it all. You’re never going to get that again and that’s why your regret looks like artwork that would have been masterpiece if you’d finished it. Your regret looks like plucking a flower before it’s bloomed. So maybe you’ll call her and you’ll tell her that you miss her and she’ll sound gentle on the phone but not in love with you anymore. She’ll say ‘we happened and we were important but you let me go, I’m sorry, but you let me go’ and that’s how you’ll know.”

— Azra.T  (via 5000letters)

hi :) my name is moona. I write (and paint!) and this is my poetry/prose blog. feel free to direct message me!! I am constantly in awe of love and how it has sweetened my life, which is why you’ll find a LOT of that shit here. I write about other things too, things that are personal to me and things I’m still learning to be okay with. I truly hope you find solace/healing/joy in my writing and if not, I just hope you can relate to some of it. I’ve found that words have the inimitable power to make us feel less lonely.

enjoy! <3

it’s getting colder and I miss watching the condensation of your breath form and disappear in the air. the iciness of your blue eyes, the chill in your stare. winter boy, you said you never loved me. winter boy, I have so many questions: was it all real? why can’t you look me in the eye any more? how did you forget me that easily? 

winter boy, how did our love get so cold?

things my abuser has tried to take away from me but failed:

1) Love in the form of sunflowers and surprise dinners and intertwined fingers. Romance and deep kisses, warm and safe. Dancing and giggling with him to Lily Allen. Kissing him and wondering what I did to deserve a body so soft, a love so raw and honest.

2) Love in the form of looking after this heavy body, even when it doesn’t look after me back. Face masks, showers and brushing through my matted hair, knotted like a unkempt garden. Dragging myself to therapy and loving all the charred parts of me. Loving me flawed, loving me regardless, loving me unconditionally, loving the me that survived.

3) Love in the form of a best friend. Nights spent sleeping next to her, nights spent crying into her lap, nights spent singing at the top of our lungs. She loves me silently, knows me when I’m down, knows me when I’m up. She doesn’t love me different, even with all the flaws.

4) Love in the form of family, with their misguided love and tentative support. Love in the form of my mother’s perfume and food she tells me to eat even when I feel I don’t deserve it. Weeks spent in hospital, bringing me my favourite food in the ward. Love in the form of her imperfection and how I wouldn’t change it for the world.

5) Love in the form of music, of dancing around in my room to the anthems of my youth. Of belting it out as loud as my lungs will allow. Songs I’ve cried to, laughed to, kissed to, lost to. Songs that held me up and gave a melody to all the hurt.

6) Love in the form of the poet in me. On my best days, she is all that I am. On my worst days, she is all that I want to be.

7) Love in the form of hope. A love that screams I made it. A love that believes it happened. Recovery has finally, finally begun to taste sweet.

“(To be loved means to be consumed. To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.)”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. (via xshayarsha)