candlejill

candlejill

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i wasn't blind and i wasn't in darkness; i was just waiting for something worth opening my eyes to see.

you trusted me with your back, i trusted you with mine. you were only supposed to shoot me if i was out of line. but power corrupts and power enslaves, who knew you'd be the one i didn't get to save

your neck in my teeth and we had to fool them two beasts are not supposed to fall in love (that would make it seem like it /okay/ that humanity isnt our default state after all)

i can wax poetic about the curve of your smile the moonshine of your skin the charcoal of your eyes the bells of your laughter the rumble of your moans the sweetness of your movements the steel in your voice but i would just be making up for what i dont understand i dont really know what draws me to you you just do (i dont really want to work it out even if god tells me i could)

(and yesterday's word: chosen) i wish you'd been the prophet instead of me (you might have been strong enough to leave me behind but a horizon would only remind me of your smile)

[and yesterday's word: plumes] i was chasing your ghost and all i have to show is the smell of smoke on my clothes, the memory of your hair, soft as rain.

there you are, a vision, difficult to remove. (that i don’t want to remove) like smoke in a room, rain in the cracks of a sidewalk, imprints of lips and fingertips on dirty glasses. inevitable as pollution in the city, beauty in the city. love tangled in blankets on the floor, because something nearby was warmer. undissolved sugar in too-bitter coffee. dirt behind my ear. the loneliness, the makeshift blood that fills my veins instead. the knowledge that our palms weren’t made to fit, because fate doesn’t exist, but they do anyway. the sight of you in my t-shirt. a comet infatuated with the planet. a bird on the windowsill during a storm because we’ve cut down all the trees. the first time you said goodbye. the last time you said hello. rust kissing skin on the inner circle of a silver ring. heavy eyelids and heavier hands leaving the kindest of bruises. the stone in my belly when your hair bows deeply before the wind and asks it to dance.

when gabe came to get me, i hadn't showered for four days. i was in pajamas, and in the middle of a bowl of ramen that i made too watery. (it was a cardiac arrest, they'll find out later, even though i was too young, even though the only thing on tv at that moment were reruns of spongebob. i guess being unlucky ran in my genes.) "you want some?" i asked first. he grinned, shook his four heads. "do i have to?" i asked second as i stared at myself, spittle collecting on my collarbone. "uh huh" he said, tugging at my shirt "don't worry. it'll be fun." i don't want to be rude and insinuate that angels can be wrong, but he was wrong. there was nothing fun about hearing you say all the things you wanted to, but never got a chance to, at my funeral. there was nothing fun about seeing you wear all-black when you always whined that it washed you out. there was nothing fun about finding out that it will be years and years and years until we can meet again. nothing fun about realizing that's enough time for you to live fulfilled. enough time for you to forget. to love people who aren't me. maybe this is selfish - who am i kidding, it is - but gabe reassures me it's not a sin. (i'm dead now, after all.) and i guess this implies i wish you died with me instead of having a long and happy life. think it if you must. it doesn't matter. nothing does. heaven's not that much better than earth when you're all alone.

you were my first love. you set a certain standard for all my future love affairs. thank god was pathetically low. (aside from being a sh*tty person, you make for a sh*tty memory too.)

if we were bugs, one day would not seem so short. if we were turtles, a century would not seem so long. as it is, we're only human, able to be outlived by trees and still able to find time to complain about being bored. (please find me, when i am a bird or a coral or a star. no matter how many days the universe gives me, i stop existing and start living only when you're around.)

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writing since 2012 · 442 entries · 430 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means h. showed up.

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on this day 14 years ago

h. wrote about banks
“her scales are pretty but her eyes are lonely, and no amount of pretty makes for good company. she sits on the shore sometimes and looks at the water; seeing herself, she turns away, hair the color o…”

the words h. reaches for

loveeyeshairskinnowsunbloodgodheartlipshandssmileredcannotmouthalone