a beautiful woman with scars on her arms, oh what a beautiful story she has hidden inside.
all worn out behind judgmental eyes.
all worn out through the days.
She was totally worn out with this back and forth thing she was doing with him. Why was this going on anyway? And why couldn’t they just say goodbye and mean it, was the question she was asking herself each and everyday.
And, just before Ellie closed the door – the last glance back, quick seconds weighing the years spent here, – she saw in the corner the pair of Mark’s shoes she’d bough for him in Serbia many summers ago. Now worn out,with ginger scuffs on brown leather and cracked soles, they were at the end of their travels, and she was, too – she thought, suddenly – despite leaving, despite the cumbersome, overstuffed suitcase at her feet and a plane ticket in her pocket.
The small diary used to be pink. Now it is brown full of dust. I try to pad it out. I try to take it back to it’s joyous pink, but the dust never ends. The speckles invade my nostrils and enrage my allergies. I become sick and I know there is only one way to cleanse the pink diary. I know there is only one way I can get better. It is bringing it back… to you.
The jeans were old and faded, torn at the knees and worn along the seams. Sara held them up to inspect them, then sighed and set them on the bed again. They would make it another day- heck maybe even two and a wash cycle, but she knew she would be replacing them soon, and it made her uneasy. “Why don’t you throw those ratty things out?” her mother asked her, a million years ago. But the jeans were still here, and her mother was not.
She felt completely worn out from the events of the last several years, and she was highly aware of just how much more the next few years would bring her. With three children to raise, she needed to be at the top of her game – but if anything, it felt like at any given moment she might just keel over and be unable to do anything. She started reflecting this in her appearance – dark circles under her eyes, less care put into her dress.
I found an old jacket in our gardenhouse. Holding it in my hands i can smell my gandpa and suddenly i see him sitting in the garden smoking or cutting the gras. I can see all the memories like a movie playing in my head..
The old boots sitting in the light of dusk by the rickety back door gave a glimpse into the life of the occupant of the tiny rundown cottage. Who could tell how old he was or the age of his boots. What was more important was that the boots looked comfortable and at home there despite their gruff appearance.
She took the coat in her hands, running awestruck fingers over its folds and knots and smooth, worn warmth. It was home. It was her, more than anything else ever could be.
I was worn down by the constant battering of thoughts and ideas, feelings and emotions that came over me over and over again, relentlessly. There was no end to these feelings, it made me feel like I was drowning in a sea of sadness and i couldn’t escape, the tide was pulling me under.
The armor was weather beaten, nearly worn through in some places, but it was warm enough and, unlike everything else, it, at least, was familiar. She clung to that nearly as tightly as the leather did to her, molding to her body like a second skin and only confirming what she’d felt; this was, had always been, hers.
Ich fühlte mich benutzt. War ich nur der Handlanger in diesem schmutzigen Coup gewesen? Jimmy hätte mich wenigstens warnen können. Ich hätte genauso gut die Geisel spielen können. Oder wäre meine Angst dann nicht mehr authentisch gewesen? Trotzdem: Scheiß Kerl.
The tag around his neck put a value on him that he didn’t particularly agree with on the basis of that word, and that wasn’t a nice feeling – but the Big Ones never really understood the worth of creatures like him, or very rarely did. It was the Little Ones that stared into the beads of your eyes and knew you; it was the Little Ones that kept you and loved you.
Unfortunately, the Little Ones always grew, and you could see the interest in the twitch of their lips fade with all those years they spent growing. Then, on some otherwise nondescript day, you were shut into a cupboard and didn’t feel much of anything. Some time after that you would only catch them in glimpses as the door opened, older and grumpier and with less light in their eyes.
Then came the charity bag and the ungenerous price tag and the cold hard shelf – but if you were lucky, they’d be followed by the grubby, sticky hands of a brand new Little One.
Tricia slept soundly on the trip back to Tokyo, worn out from her days on the run but now in the secure guardianship of four police officers. Ohara had insisted they should be from the Niigata force, not from Tokyo, because if Kenji’s people knew the code name Makita’s team had for the target, they might be able to find out more. Ohara knew he could trust Makita, they went back a long way; but he also knew he could trust absolutely nobody else.
he’s so entirely sure that he won’t be able to walk another day and then
some invisible string pulls him up from bed
and marionettes him
into walking;
no, he begs, it isn’t worth it.
There are things that you wear that you put away and never think of again. This dress is one of them. It’s hideous and pink and full of all of the froufrou and hoop-la that you’d expect. If it wasn’t for my sisters wedding I would throw it in the boot of my car and throw it in a swamp. Or perhaps not. I wouldn’t want to foist something that horrendous onto the poor environment. Burn it maybe. Throw it into toxic nuclear waste. Wearing it would not be on the agenda.
the panties were made of cotton, eren noted; they were white and simple, nothing lavish save the lone, tiny pink bow on the front, right below the elastic.
he leans in, kisses a wet trail down the inside of levi’s thigh, revels in the way levi twitches in his hold.
“they suit you,” eren murmurs against the milky skin before canting his gaze up to meet levi’s eyes.
the other man is far less amused, given the way he stares dryly between his legs, right at eren’s coy face.
he slides a hand into eren’s hair and cups the back of his head. “less talking, more…”
eren watches levi expectently, awaiting a sultry order, but levi’s eyes merely flicker between eren’s face and his own erection, straining against his worn cotton panties.
eren chuckles, finding something oddly funny about the momentary innocence. levi only snorts. they’re both used to levi’s awkwardness by now.
All through out childhood, I would watch my mother. She was grace, I loved watching her parade around the house in fabulous dresses, and sparkling jewelry. My sisters and I were hypothesized by her full, red lips. I was especially curious about the chest in her closet. I used to peek into my mother’s room while she hummed melodies and danced about. She would go into the closet, open the chest, and come out wearing one of many dazzling dresses. She saw me once, peeking through the door. She invited me in and opened that chest. I had never felt so magical. After she died, she left the chest and all its contents to me. When I opened the chest, all of the dresses and jewelry I loved as a child, lied there faded and worn. I picked up my favorite dress, and I cried.
Her worn out boots were uncomfortable, because the soles had worn so thin she could feel the contours of the stones beneath her feet as she strolled through town. She didn’t want to give up her old shoes though. These shoes had seen her through some hard times, just like some specific people. She adored those shoes and would defend their worth until the end, just like she would with those specific people. Those shoes still had some business to get done, just like those specific people. But unlike those specific people, those shoes would never abandon her and the plans she had for them; they would stand by what they fucking committed to. People always disappointed this lady, but her boots didn’t. Feeling the stones on the paths through the village wasn’t that bad.
Time had worn out a hole in her heart. Years of waiting for an answer. Years of looking for the one she had lost. Now she had to made a choice. Was she going to stay in the same town hoping he would come back or would she take the job offer that would allow her to start a new life a new start? Was she willing to close the door on her past? The pain of even thinking about leaving almost took her breath away. Yet, she new she couldn’t stay. If she did she would remain stuck. Yes seemed like the only logical answer. It took her only two days two pack her apartment. She was shipping all of her belongs ahead of time and using the weekend to say her goodbyes. She packed herself a bag with just enough clothing and toiletries to get her by. This was it, she was done, finished. Even if he did come back after all this time she still would go.
He had worn out the knees of his jeans. All of five he thought he could slip,slide, crash and fall without it doing any damage to his clothing. When the holes finally arrived he was surprised. Shocked to say the least. Looking up into his mommies eyes he said, “I don’t know what happened mama, really!” He believed his own story even though he had picked at the tiny pieces of threads that had been slowly unraveling before the hole took over. Mama had a gentle disposition and was raised with three older brothers who suffered with the same phenomenon so the worn out holes in her little mans jeans were of no surprise. She paused for a long time after he announced his ignorance and then she squatted down to be at eye level with him and shared how the very same thing would happen to his uncle pants when they were little boys as well. He looked at her mouth open wide his big brown eyes saying “really” at the same time his mouth did. “You bet,” she said! And continued to teach him about the world of patch work and the ability to cover up the holes and make the jeans last a little bit longer. He thought his mama was pretty smart anyway but this piece of information made him feel like she knew magic. The next morning he woke up to his favorite pair of blue jeans, washed and ready to go free from the holes that had miraculously appeared out of no wee just the day before.
She was worn down. Tired. Tired of everything, really, but also tired of nothing. Tired of being her. Like a word you say over and over and over in your head, it loses meaning, gets worn down to nothing. Like a cocky woodworker, shaving too much off on the lathe and ending up with nothing but a frail stick that breaks when you hold it too tightly. Worn down. Broken.
I ought to have trusted him, because he was old and weird and worn, and I was new, and smooth, and unblemished, but I did not trust him and I did not listen to him.
I was worn down. Broken and beaten. I gave my world, I gave my strength, I gave my all. Only to be worn down repeatedly. I asked and begged and pleaded. I was good! You hear me! Good! Why was I treated with such disdain, such disgust. In the end I was the one worn. I was the one torn. I was the one at the end of the day who couldnt sleep… who couldnt eat… who couldnt breathe. Oh lord spare me. Lord build me up, I am so worn down. Send me home. To breathe. To live happily.
My patience had worn thin, and at the same time, the adrenaline was building up. He still had his hands on my hips, caressing the edges of my waist, chuckling as he pursed his lips. In the next moment, his face was scrunched up against the table, the squeals high-pitched as he slammed him onto the wood with his arms behind his back.
“Touch me again,” I growled, “and I will see to it that you never procreate again. Got it?”
Today, I wore a navy blue skirt with white stripes. I’ve owned it now for about a year; a steal at Anthropologie when I had little to no money and was tired of the skirts I owned. When I first saw it, it called to me; I couldn’t believe how much it resembled something I’d wanted before. During the summer I dream of nautical fashion fantasies, strolling down piers in navy blue and white, impeccable and sweatless in its crispness.
She fingered the torn, worn clothing, the puckered holes that dotted the black fabric, pieces of thread twisting out from the fraying edges and tangling with one another. (tying the holes together)
I feel worn out after a week worth of meetings and a week full of thinking about school non-stop. All I really want to do is relax with a book or a movie and some chocolate and just have fun, but that is not how it will work for me today. I have so much to get done before the first day of school tomorrow, so relaxation is not in the cards today.
Her face looked worn, like the old sweater she wore. She hadn’t always looked like that. Once she had had life in her eyes, wrinkles from laughter, not time. But somehow she was still beautiful just as she was.
It hadn’t been worn many times but she still felt an irrational attachment to the scarf. After all it was not unlike the one her mother had given her when she was a child. Now she would have to face up to the stark truth. Both the sky blue scarf and her mother were gone.
aged body. feeling of an ever ticking time clock. reminding me that i’m in the middle of my life. the goal is to not look worn nor feel worn. to feel vibrant and full of life. the mission.
a beautiful woman with scars on her arms, oh what a beautiful story she has hidden inside.
all worn out behind judgmental eyes.
all worn out through the days.
She was totally worn out with this back and forth thing she was doing with him. Why was this going on anyway? And why couldn’t they just say goodbye and mean it, was the question she was asking herself each and everyday.
And, just before Ellie closed the door – the last glance back, quick seconds weighing the years spent here, – she saw in the corner the pair of Mark’s shoes she’d bough for him in Serbia many summers ago. Now worn out,with ginger scuffs on brown leather and cracked soles, they were at the end of their travels, and she was, too – she thought, suddenly – despite leaving, despite the cumbersome, overstuffed suitcase at her feet and a plane ticket in her pocket.
The coat was worn. Heavy looking material. Ragged at the seams. what used to be black in color had faded into a more charcoal gray.
Her heart was worn out from the lies and pain he had inflicted on her from the first time they knew each other.
Now, she felt like an emotionless robot.
The small diary used to be pink. Now it is brown full of dust. I try to pad it out. I try to take it back to it’s joyous pink, but the dust never ends. The speckles invade my nostrils and enrage my allergies. I become sick and I know there is only one way to cleanse the pink diary. I know there is only one way I can get better. It is bringing it back… to you.
The jeans were old and faded, torn at the knees and worn along the seams. Sara held them up to inspect them, then sighed and set them on the bed again. They would make it another day- heck maybe even two and a wash cycle, but she knew she would be replacing them soon, and it made her uneasy. “Why don’t you throw those ratty things out?” her mother asked her, a million years ago. But the jeans were still here, and her mother was not.
She felt completely worn out from the events of the last several years, and she was highly aware of just how much more the next few years would bring her. With three children to raise, she needed to be at the top of her game – but if anything, it felt like at any given moment she might just keel over and be unable to do anything. She started reflecting this in her appearance – dark circles under her eyes, less care put into her dress.
The clothe has seen the end of its life. The stitching frayed, the colour fled.
How as that for a metaphor. Where was the tailor to fix his life? The seamstress to take away the pain and make him whole?
It was all pointless stitch work.
I found an old jacket in our gardenhouse. Holding it in my hands i can smell my gandpa and suddenly i see him sitting in the garden smoking or cutting the gras. I can see all the memories like a movie playing in my head..
The old boots sitting in the light of dusk by the rickety back door gave a glimpse into the life of the occupant of the tiny rundown cottage. Who could tell how old he was or the age of his boots. What was more important was that the boots looked comfortable and at home there despite their gruff appearance.
She took the coat in her hands, running awestruck fingers over its folds and knots and smooth, worn warmth. It was home. It was her, more than anything else ever could be.
I was worn down by the constant battering of thoughts and ideas, feelings and emotions that came over me over and over again, relentlessly. There was no end to these feelings, it made me feel like I was drowning in a sea of sadness and i couldn’t escape, the tide was pulling me under.
worn like sweater-holes, like your thumbs
pressing through my skin and me
wrapping around your hands
worn like foot soles, like miles
of asphalt without flowers peeking
through the cracks
worn like forgetting you, and then
it’s years later and I’ve worn so many other
people’s sweaters, and I’m
just worn out
The armor was weather beaten, nearly worn through in some places, but it was warm enough and, unlike everything else, it, at least, was familiar. She clung to that nearly as tightly as the leather did to her, molding to her body like a second skin and only confirming what she’d felt; this was, had always been, hers.
Ich fühlte mich benutzt. War ich nur der Handlanger in diesem schmutzigen Coup gewesen? Jimmy hätte mich wenigstens warnen können. Ich hätte genauso gut die Geisel spielen können. Oder wäre meine Angst dann nicht mehr authentisch gewesen? Trotzdem: Scheiß Kerl.
Tired. So tired of the constant struggle. The pain. The constant wear and tear. So tired of having the same spot torn over and over. Worn. Worn out.
He preferred ‘threadbare’, but ‘worn’ would do.
The tag around his neck put a value on him that he didn’t particularly agree with on the basis of that word, and that wasn’t a nice feeling – but the Big Ones never really understood the worth of creatures like him, or very rarely did. It was the Little Ones that stared into the beads of your eyes and knew you; it was the Little Ones that kept you and loved you.
Unfortunately, the Little Ones always grew, and you could see the interest in the twitch of their lips fade with all those years they spent growing. Then, on some otherwise nondescript day, you were shut into a cupboard and didn’t feel much of anything. Some time after that you would only catch them in glimpses as the door opened, older and grumpier and with less light in their eyes.
Then came the charity bag and the ungenerous price tag and the cold hard shelf – but if you were lucky, they’d be followed by the grubby, sticky hands of a brand new Little One.
A new friend made it easy to forget.
Tricia slept soundly on the trip back to Tokyo, worn out from her days on the run but now in the secure guardianship of four police officers. Ohara had insisted they should be from the Niigata force, not from Tokyo, because if Kenji’s people knew the code name Makita’s team had for the target, they might be able to find out more. Ohara knew he could trust Makita, they went back a long way; but he also knew he could trust absolutely nobody else.
he’s so entirely sure that he won’t be able to walk another day and then
some invisible string pulls him up from bed
and marionettes him
into walking;
no, he begs, it isn’t worth it.
he’s falling apart.
For sale:
One ring. Embossed silver, embedded with diamonds around the rim, a sapphire (his favorite) set in its center.
Never worn.
There are things that you wear that you put away and never think of again. This dress is one of them. It’s hideous and pink and full of all of the froufrou and hoop-la that you’d expect. If it wasn’t for my sisters wedding I would throw it in the boot of my car and throw it in a swamp. Or perhaps not. I wouldn’t want to foist something that horrendous onto the poor environment. Burn it maybe. Throw it into toxic nuclear waste. Wearing it would not be on the agenda.
the panties were made of cotton, eren noted; they were white and simple, nothing lavish save the lone, tiny pink bow on the front, right below the elastic.
he leans in, kisses a wet trail down the inside of levi’s thigh, revels in the way levi twitches in his hold.
“they suit you,” eren murmurs against the milky skin before canting his gaze up to meet levi’s eyes.
the other man is far less amused, given the way he stares dryly between his legs, right at eren’s coy face.
he slides a hand into eren’s hair and cups the back of his head. “less talking, more…”
eren watches levi expectently, awaiting a sultry order, but levi’s eyes merely flicker between eren’s face and his own erection, straining against his worn cotton panties.
eren chuckles, finding something oddly funny about the momentary innocence. levi only snorts. they’re both used to levi’s awkwardness by now.
All through out childhood, I would watch my mother. She was grace, I loved watching her parade around the house in fabulous dresses, and sparkling jewelry. My sisters and I were hypothesized by her full, red lips. I was especially curious about the chest in her closet. I used to peek into my mother’s room while she hummed melodies and danced about. She would go into the closet, open the chest, and come out wearing one of many dazzling dresses. She saw me once, peeking through the door. She invited me in and opened that chest. I had never felt so magical. After she died, she left the chest and all its contents to me. When I opened the chest, all of the dresses and jewelry I loved as a child, lied there faded and worn. I picked up my favorite dress, and I cried.
The armor was worn but there was at least one still good use in it, I picked it up and turned toward the man. “You shure” he asked and I nodded.
his belt-buckle shoes–
my cobblestone headaches
twice the size of an egg–
and the incessant tap
of malfunction for release.
Her worn out boots were uncomfortable, because the soles had worn so thin she could feel the contours of the stones beneath her feet as she strolled through town. She didn’t want to give up her old shoes though. These shoes had seen her through some hard times, just like some specific people. She adored those shoes and would defend their worth until the end, just like she would with those specific people. Those shoes still had some business to get done, just like those specific people. But unlike those specific people, those shoes would never abandon her and the plans she had for them; they would stand by what they fucking committed to. People always disappointed this lady, but her boots didn’t. Feeling the stones on the paths through the village wasn’t that bad.
Time had worn out a hole in her heart. Years of waiting for an answer. Years of looking for the one she had lost. Now she had to made a choice. Was she going to stay in the same town hoping he would come back or would she take the job offer that would allow her to start a new life a new start? Was she willing to close the door on her past? The pain of even thinking about leaving almost took her breath away. Yet, she new she couldn’t stay. If she did she would remain stuck. Yes seemed like the only logical answer. It took her only two days two pack her apartment. She was shipping all of her belongs ahead of time and using the weekend to say her goodbyes. She packed herself a bag with just enough clothing and toiletries to get her by. This was it, she was done, finished. Even if he did come back after all this time she still would go.
He had worn out the knees of his jeans. All of five he thought he could slip,slide, crash and fall without it doing any damage to his clothing. When the holes finally arrived he was surprised. Shocked to say the least. Looking up into his mommies eyes he said, “I don’t know what happened mama, really!” He believed his own story even though he had picked at the tiny pieces of threads that had been slowly unraveling before the hole took over. Mama had a gentle disposition and was raised with three older brothers who suffered with the same phenomenon so the worn out holes in her little mans jeans were of no surprise. She paused for a long time after he announced his ignorance and then she squatted down to be at eye level with him and shared how the very same thing would happen to his uncle pants when they were little boys as well. He looked at her mouth open wide his big brown eyes saying “really” at the same time his mouth did. “You bet,” she said! And continued to teach him about the world of patch work and the ability to cover up the holes and make the jeans last a little bit longer. He thought his mama was pretty smart anyway but this piece of information made him feel like she knew magic. The next morning he woke up to his favorite pair of blue jeans, washed and ready to go free from the holes that had miraculously appeared out of no wee just the day before.
She was worn down. Tired. Tired of everything, really, but also tired of nothing. Tired of being her. Like a word you say over and over and over in your head, it loses meaning, gets worn down to nothing. Like a cocky woodworker, shaving too much off on the lathe and ending up with nothing but a frail stick that breaks when you hold it too tightly. Worn down. Broken.
The cloak looks worn. It has been used for generation after generation.
“Don’t do this.” He told me.
I ought to have trusted him, because he was old and weird and worn, and I was new, and smooth, and unblemished, but I did not trust him and I did not listen to him.
I was worn down. Broken and beaten. I gave my world, I gave my strength, I gave my all. Only to be worn down repeatedly. I asked and begged and pleaded. I was good! You hear me! Good! Why was I treated with such disdain, such disgust. In the end I was the one worn. I was the one torn. I was the one at the end of the day who couldnt sleep… who couldnt eat… who couldnt breathe. Oh lord spare me. Lord build me up, I am so worn down. Send me home. To breathe. To live happily.
My patience had worn thin, and at the same time, the adrenaline was building up. He still had his hands on my hips, caressing the edges of my waist, chuckling as he pursed his lips. In the next moment, his face was scrunched up against the table, the squeals high-pitched as he slammed him onto the wood with his arms behind his back.
“Touch me again,” I growled, “and I will see to it that you never procreate again. Got it?”
Today, I wore a navy blue skirt with white stripes. I’ve owned it now for about a year; a steal at Anthropologie when I had little to no money and was tired of the skirts I owned. When I first saw it, it called to me; I couldn’t believe how much it resembled something I’d wanted before. During the summer I dream of nautical fashion fantasies, strolling down piers in navy blue and white, impeccable and sweatless in its crispness.
She fingered the torn, worn clothing, the puckered holes that dotted the black fabric, pieces of thread twisting out from the fraying edges and tangling with one another. (tying the holes together)
I feel worn out after a week worth of meetings and a week full of thinking about school non-stop. All I really want to do is relax with a book or a movie and some chocolate and just have fun, but that is not how it will work for me today. I have so much to get done before the first day of school tomorrow, so relaxation is not in the cards today.
Her face looked worn, like the old sweater she wore. She hadn’t always looked like that. Once she had had life in her eyes, wrinkles from laughter, not time. But somehow she was still beautiful just as she was.
It hadn’t been worn many times but she still felt an irrational attachment to the scarf. After all it was not unlike the one her mother had given her when she was a child. Now she would have to face up to the stark truth. Both the sky blue scarf and her mother were gone.
aged body. feeling of an ever ticking time clock. reminding me that i’m in the middle of my life. the goal is to not look worn nor feel worn. to feel vibrant and full of life. the mission.