Latest Posts by whenthetreesspeaklatin - Page 3

“Part of Consequently being humans is that we all have sides we never want to reveal even to our own selves, deep dark, terrible, ugly sides. Solitary parts that only we know about”

—ayman abdinasir

I don't like to be assumed. I'd like to be known. Fully, completely. I want you to be immersed in me.

Malignancy of swans

Dedication:

to my beloved, to my fragile little cygnet

….nested inside these folded pages….

scar tissues over my lungs from breathing too loud, your fingers imprinted on my ivory neck…. like wheat surrendered to the sun, I too had a perfectly splendid song.

the harmony of night is yet to begin

but my skin too pale & my neck too long

and now even the ghosts are tired of listening to me.

you said your blood needs rest, so I left my heart stranded on top of your wine glass, toasting a half miracle.

crimson patchwork over white plumes;

for you my love. all of it.

phantom limbs over lost wings;

for you my love. all of it.

a baptism in poison water;

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders bleed.

your cygnet did.

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders itch.

midnight's screech birthed onyx feathers

it engulfed my skin, my soul, my dream.

come my love, rest on my lips. have a look at the colour before the glass cuts too deep.

the malignancy of swans has caught up to my neck — let your lullaby be my swan song, let my coal heart dress for the wake.

my love, I do perfect pirouettes over these folded pages as my shadow burns a chasm into their core.

Epilogue:

for my beloved, for my formidable cygnus

…..lingering over these charred pages……

— circadeacademia

I confuse people. i have a happy personality and a sad soul. i'm bold but shy. i love deeply but sometimes i feel heartless. i'm healing and hurting at the same time. i'm dedicated to growth, but i self sabotage

"I'm not doing this to be a hero. I'm doing it because there's something deeply broken in my head, and it makes me want to kill people, and this is the only way I can keep feeding the urge without getting arrested. The fact that my victims happen to be bad people doesn't really factor into it."

Mary Oliver, from a poem titled "The Crows," featured in New & Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Empress Yamatohime, transl. by Kenneth Rexroth, from Written on The Sky; Poems from the Japanese

(grabs you by the shoulders) you have to make room for new experiences in your life. you have to go through the unpleasant work of leaving your comfort zone, even if just for a few minutes at a time. because if you don't, your brain will trick you into stagnation. you will start to believe that the world can barely fit you in it. but that's not true. it's the opposite way around. you can fit the whole word inside of you. your task is only this: to welcome it with open arms

Poisonous passions

Your love is like a fire,

I felt it burn within,

Yet, that burning,

Dims with each, dying, day.

Your love is like fire, and ice,

Felt, truly, only once, maybe twice.

I fail to feel your love now,

For you set me here and left.

You pushed me. Too far.

Now, I cannot stop myself from falling,

You put me from hell;

I got no glimpse of heaven.

I fail to believe in a god above,

For I don't believe I deserve the pain you bestowed upon me,

Or is it all that I deserve?

The nerve.

Your love, it's like poison...

When I felt it, it burnt.

You burn like fire,

Your flame, blackened.

You burned.

Your wood- turned to ash.

Your flame- died out.

Now, I live without you.

Happier than ever,

Despite the lasting baggage,

No poison. No pain.

Still, my heart stings sometimes,

When I remember those times,

When I was with you,

When you ruined me.

I think the first step towards the life you want is often to just say yes to more things. Accept that coffee invitation from your coworker even if it seems awkward. Sign up for that free class at the library that you're not sure you'll like. Join that club. Book that tour. Say yes to as many things as you can and kill the part of your brain that gut-reacts with a no.

The Soul Named Home

This poem was written in April 2015 and then posted on Wattpad.

A human being is like a house Where an angel and a demon live together The angel likes to go outside often Whilst the demon likes to stay at the house It's natural: An angel buys the food and other needs A demon keeps the house clean and in order But everyone needs the fresh air And that's why the demon gets angry at times And that's the reason why I let the demon go outside And keep the angel to handle the chores

A childs imagination

I was always a daddy’s girl, even after he left.

I remember the day my mum sat me down and told me why he was gone. She didn’t go into detail-just said he couldn’t be around anymore, that it wasn’t safe for us if he stayed. My little brain couldn’t understand, but what I could understand is the fear in her eyes so I stopped asking. Instead I turned to writing. It felt like the only way I could still talk to him.

I wrote letters, simple at first. I sat on my bedroom floor, one hand under my chin and another holding a blue ink ball pen. I’d write about all the things I wish I could tell him if he was here… “dad, today I got 10/10 on my maths test at school” or “we had a Collin the Caterpillar cake for my birthday this year, it’s my favourite. I wish you were here”

I never did send them though, instead I folded them up into tiny little squares and placed them into a red box that had seashells glued on all the edges.

Every birthday he missed, every school play, every holiday where his absence felt like a cold shadow at the dinner table, I wrote. The letters stacked up like little pieces of me I hoped he’d find one day.

One night I sat there, staring at the paper, the pen trembling in my hand. This time, I didn’t write about school or my friends birthday parties or the sleepover I had with my best friend the week before. I wrote what I had been too afraid to say before. “Dad, please be nice to mum so you can come back.” I begged him in that letter like I never had before, hoping somehow that my words would reach wherever he was. I folded it up and placed it in the box that was now overflowing.

A week later he called my mum. He hadn’t done that in years, but there he was, asking about me. She didn’t tell me much, just that he asked how I was doing. It wasn’t much but in my child’s heart it felt like everything.

That’s when I became convinced I had some crazy magical powers. That I resembled the superheroes and magical witches in the shows I watched every weekend.

It just had to be true! How else could the letter I kept in my little red seashell box bring him back? I believed if I kept writing, kept wishing hard enough, praying before bed every night, that he would be able to stay this time. Maybe I was the one who could fix everything and bring my family back together! So I wrote more and more, until my favourite blue pen ran out of ink and my little box was too full of letters that I had to move them to my bedside table drawer.

But my magic wasn’t strong enough.

He left again, just like before. This time though, it hurt a little less. Maybe my magic hadn’t been enough to keep him here, but it had given me something else: strength. The kind that stopped my heart breaking completely.

The years passed, and the box was forgotten about. But I was still a daddy’s girl, even if he never came back in the way I wanted him to.

And in the quiet of my room, with the weight of that box heavy on my shelf, covered in dust, I realised something: my magic wasn’t about bringing him back. It was about learning to live without him.

Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary, August 1921

Edgar Allan Poe, from a letter to Mrs. Maria Clemm, July 1849

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, from a letter to Jane Williams written in February 1823, featured in The Letters of Mary Shelley

Artwork by: Gusfink🖤

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

“I was looked at, but I wasn’t seen.”

-Albert Camus, “The Misunderstanding.”

The gap between the life you want and the life you are living is called mindset, focus, and consistency.

love elizabeth s.