the girl who tasted words.

when we find ourselves
intertwined inside a snow globe

time freezes

moments we capture
blankets us with a blank canvas
as we violently decorate it
everything magical in the shades of nude
with passionate strokes

and because i put your intelligence
on a pedestal,
i immerse myself
in this sea of fantasy
when you whisper sweet nothings
through these orgies of words.

i think i’m only meant
to fall in love with sentences
your fingers pen,
and they are so perfectly pressed together
with elegance
the way i wish you’d hold my hand.

didn’t you know
a girl could float
on hope for centuries?

you’ve always had a way
of making me believe
in the great distance,
that’s laced with even greater passion,
like an explosion between constellations,
that somewhere is the way you hold me,
your body quilted into mine.

… it snows when you shake.

and i’m quickly reminded that
words are only words
in your hour of concupiscence,
and i’m just another dirty chapter
quietly tucked away
like a lady of the night.

you tip the hourglass,
ready
for the clock to start ticking again,
and i’m left in yesterday.

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secret-filled confetti and intricate confessions

There is no pretty way to put it. There is no way to paint over the cracks. Maybe there are too many words in your fingers; nervous hands trembling within a still-eyed nightmare. You cannot be hushed so easily when he folds you over like the hem of a skirt that’s been irreverently handled by churlish hands – corrosive and deceptive. Viciously stripped and you’re left as naked as your heart but the drummers stubbornly march on anyway, and beats entrancingly in your chest. The clock pinned to your wall keeps reminding you that the rest of the world is sleeping; you think the moon can never be full again and the stars found their way home. And these awkward, awkward nights when your eyelids flicker more than the seizing streetlight outside of your bedroom window, you feel the minutes being sucked out of you in his hour of delirium though burning stares from eyes so cold – so cold – those vacant iceberg eyes.

Kick that hourglass. Topple it. Tip it over so that it can finally be half full rather than empty.

There’s no use in continuing the search when your fingers have failed in finding the answers. Swallow the hurt as he leans on the comfort of a half-hearted splendour to stroke him with fantasy licked marks. Fingerprints. Lips. Noses. They all form a temptress mosaic in [he]r eyes. He finds [he]r most graceful, like a fairy and he speaks of [he]r in ways you could only dream of living up to. It’s impossible. He’s injected letters into margins that’s filled with cock-loaded words smudged in a day old beer stain he swears he meant to say. You were never his forever, but a waypoint that will teach him everything he never wants to feel again where he sits in a corner, closing his eyes against a memory you made sure he would never forget.

Because our hearts lead us down one-way roads and sometimes you have to break the rules in order to get back. The need to preserve your past was the main reason you held onto the things that hurt you the most; change scares you; letting go was something you were never good at. Set those stars free and scatter them like a diamond storm taking life in your lashes.

Blink him away.

99 bottles of beer on the wall.

You’ve always been the girl they’ll find with tearful eyes and swears that nothing is wrong. Your face helps you lie. This ring that glistened promises and forevers around your finger has merely become a shadow. How can your wounds heal when the stitches continually unravel? Don’t break beautifully for the one who never understood the extend of the damage he had on your heart. Bricks tumbling against the current of his facial expressions; grins of mad-men pasted across his face are screaming sorry again. Ill-filled hand gestures and movements that are less than elegant. Two hundred sorries and a story pouring from his empty beer bottles that he’s been trying to pass on.

Don’t fall for it again and again and again.

You’re out of ways to convince your heart to beat for him. Never anticipated for anyone to grasp the idea of being so deeply attached to a mere illusion of being held by hands that never kept you together. It’s useless. He’s cracked every smile you’ve ever possessed like smashing porcelain dolls against disheartened pavement while the world just passes by, crushing the pieces to dust.

Don’t let him kill you over and over and over.

There’s dirtiest of secrets and silence clawing its way out of your skin. Unwrap it and take back the reins. Surrender all things polished. You’re not his floormat girl. And remember, you need to get this anger out of your head before it crawls its way into your heart. It’s okay that you’ve lost the ability to hide behind pink erasers and white concealing liquid, this notebook has reached its end anyway.

It’s good-bye this time.

when push comes to a shove.

“Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving to be your best. Perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgement, and shame. It’s a shield. It’s a twenty-ton shield that we lug around thinking it will protect us when, in fact, it’s the thing that’s really preventing us from flight”
– Brene Brown

It is hard work to project an image. To pretend, to live it, and to protect it. To convince that everything is fine and dandy; great even. Mustn’t allow the cracks to seep through. Forcing smiles on a face they don’t belong; you’re exhausted. There’s something about staring into the starless night sky that makes you feel abandoned. The lie becomes you and it’s lonely. It pushes you in front of a breaking wave. And you feel like a wreck, bearing treasures you think you cannot show without pulling anyone down with you. But, somehow…. somehow through this shitstorm, you still fiercely cling onto the canvas you painted of your peachy world.

A master of deception. A deflector of vulnerability. An admirer of artifice.

You silently weather the storms of insecurity; it’s cold. Every bone in your body is screaming and there’s dead butterflies inside of you. Faking comes easier to those who are numb; it hurts. Scripts like this aren’t meant for you.

Be something other than polished perfection. Strip the lies and undress yourself from the ugliness. Be a mess. Be authentic even if the truth is tangled. Listen to the sorry beats of the drummer that cannot create a rhythm in your chest; it’s whispering you stories with songs that are out of sync; the notes are unedited and it’s beautiful.

Long gone are the days of being a graceful pretender. Convene and accede being lost and decipher conflicts and struggles. Embrace vulnerability and watch your heart come back to life. Be open. Be penned by the truth and inscribe each detail of its profound elegance. And there’s inspiration laced in every uncertainty. Let go of the secrets that were never yours to begin with and allow them to fill journals. The wind will blow away the pages and the words of tragedy will find their way into somebody else’s hands.

Put down the shield. Take off the armour. You’re free from the walls. You’re more alive than you’ve ever been.

This is a confession.

Every night when the clock strikes seven o’clock, our home shifts into a shit storm. My patience is tested, time and time again. And you, my three-year-old creature, full of fire, leave me infuriated and tormented. You are indomitable and fierce. There’s this coolness of determination that luminosities in your eyes; I know this look and you wear it well.

One more book (nuh huh, maybe next time you won’t ask me to read the same book 3 times in a row)

I need a sip of water

I have to go to the potty

Oh oops, I forgot to flush and wash my hands (oh, now you remember without being reminded?)

I don’t like this blanket; I want a different one (goddamn it, you picked that one!)

This blanket is cold; it needs to go in the dryer to warm up

I’m hot

I’m cold

Where are my cars?

Watch me count, 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10… (wonderful, you can show me the rest tomorrow, now let’s snuggle)

I can spell my name, L-I-E-V, Liev! (that’s nice. I can spell your name too. Now go to sleep)

I think we need to practise our ABC’s a little more. A-B-C-D- (and then I fucking interrupt to silence him. So, Miss Janelle, if Liev can’t remember what comes after D, this is why. And no, I’m not sorry. Not even one little bit)

My feet need socks; they told me they’re cold. (is that so?)

I would like you to sleep with me for a short time, mummy (one would have to actually sleep in order for this to happen, no?)

No, don’t go.  Two more minutes

I’m scared; I want you to stay

Sleep makes me sad. Playing makes me happy. (well, you asleep equals a happy mum, but apparently life’s not always fair. So, tough luck, buddy)

One more minute, mummy, one more minute

One more minute, mummy, one more minute

One more minute, mummy, one more minute

The man and the woman over there said good night. GOOD NIGHT! *waves* (and this does the trick, I dare not move)

Two hours later, you are still awake. Fighting against weariness. And somewhere in the Great White North, my mother is laughing at me.

Karma is shit.

all the world’s a stage.

Shakespeare got it right.

We’re all actors in a sense, aren’t we? Playing the role of a lifetime where everything is scripted accordingly to how you want others to perceive you; these characters we craft and rehearse over and over and over in our heads. Every block, every movement, every grand gesture, every single line, every entrance, and every exit are well thought out and carefully laid out. This image that we quill with in hopes that the ink doesn’t spill over into the margins. A lie conveyed through the looking glass. A theatrical performance orchestrated into perfection to conceal what’s underneath the mask.

and you’re slowly diluting into a wallflower

Every so often, my mind does this little jig where ramblings of poetry scribble across my thoughts. And I’m mesmerised by the chaos in this solo. I’m never alone and I’m never lonely; two’s company and three’s a crowd. There is something so profoundly beautiful in the rawness of honesty. Only if we could pen ourselves onto pages in shades of nude. Undressed. Unscripted. Improvised. An exquisite art. No fabrications. Transparent, not translucent. A journal we fill as we go along rather than dusting off an old book and reciting stories that have been told a hundred times over.

Because anybody can be a Juliet, but who will be you?

free yourself from the shackles.

I am not the perfect mother. There. I’ve said it. I admit it.

This is ridiculous, isn’t it? This Myth. This Urban Legend. This something that every mother strives to be. An unrealistic goal. The impossible. The one that will drive us to the brink of the edge. A bait for failure; taunting us and mocking us. This ghost of bullshit we’re constantly chasing.

Fuck off

There’s so much pressure. This script of life, written with such bold perfection. This imaginary manual, one that’s shoved in your face the moment you bear a child. The lingering words haunting you, casting shadows of doubt, and questioning your every move. The worrying and the second guessing as the minutes slowly slip away. And the minutes into hours. And the hours into days.

Living in a lie. This charade. The self-preservation of image. This expectation, one that keeps getting higher and higher within each reach. This constant criticism. The whispering and the judging. The mommy-wars that is so very much alive and ingrained in our culture.

This is so damn hard

Motherhood isn’t a Rockwell painting. Life is not perfection. This is hard and this is confusing. There will be chaos.  A constant struggle, one that we slowly learn to embrace.  Being a mother means getting so frustrated, that occasionally in moments of clusterfucks, you let your emotions match and usurp theirs, and then you hang your head in shame that you acted like a three year old. Motherhood is showing your children the grace of humility. Mothers give forgiveness and ask her children for theirs. Life is giving yourself permission to fall, to make mistakes, and to find the courage to admit your faults. You fucked up, so what. You pick up the pieces, you learn from it, and you grow. To be a mother is to be human. This delicate lesson, we need to remind ourselves of again and again and again.

There will also be moments when you feel alive and invincible. When your instincts are golden. You will be laced with the most incredible sense of pride. Hold on to this. Hold on to every single thing, the good and the bad and everything in between. There is something so profoundly powerful in being vulnerable. Don’t deny yourself of this. The chance to find your inner strength. To admit that this is hard. Because then how can you truly appreciate the joys of parenthood when you’re living a lie.

This notion. The perfect mother. It’s not real. Let it go.