Monochrome Me

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Letter to the Past

I have never been one to write letters that begin with dear

I have never been one to write letters at all, actually

I have never been one to say hello or smile that much

because I hate my voice and how my mouth curls

so crudely into something more of a grimace.

For me the past isn’t a series of events that had trans

pired, I don’t believe anything ever really ends

and history repeats itself anyway, doesn’t it?

Just yesterday, for instance, a stranger smiled at me

from across the street and it reminded me

so much of you that I started to cry right there

and when I looked up, he was gone and I felt

a little bit better. What I mean is that the pain

won’t ever really go away, would it?

Because for me, the past is you

and I’ve never really been one to say goodbye.

—request

Like the Rock of Gibraltar

Sometimes there are ocean waves that look like dead men’s fingertips, beckoning. That’s probably why he jumped off that cliff last Sunday when he was supposed to be singing at church and smiling and, well, alive. At least that’s what the news reports say.

Because it couldn’t possibly have been the children in his third grade class who called him burnt toast, could it? Oh no, it couldn’t possibly have been when Samantha told him he belonged in the trash or when the school janitor used to come around and they’d tell him to mop away the spilt coffee before it leaves a stain.

You met him in high school and before the other kids could call him grizzly, you gathered up the bear traps and loved him. You swallowed the sea foam before they’d start to lure him with a single gesture, the same way death coaxed that man head first into jagged rocks.

It took you a while to realise he’s strong too. You both have gotten used to the young mothers whispering into their blue-eyed daughters’ ears whenever you passed by hand in hand. You’ve gotten used to the train journey stares with his warm hands on your hips. So when the next old white couple in the park comes up to you to ask why, just smile and kiss him long and hard until they go away. They always do.

—request

If bruise were a colour

I’d paint my walls with it.

Some days they’d look like flowers
blooming beneath Winter skies
when the snow’s stopped falling
for a little while to let us breathe.

Other days, they’d be paint water
spilt on the floor and we’d lie arms
outstretched over them, staring at
the ceiling, soaking up our mess.
We’d make snow angels.

Then there are days when I could
stand so still, back pressed closely,
so hard on the wall and you wouldn’t
even see me. You’d pass by like the
breeze and I’d be the music sheets
fluttering quietly to the floor.

Your violin won’t be able to mask
the sound your fists make when
they collide with my ribs forever,
you know.

—request

Everything sounds strange inside an empty room.

A whisper sounds like snakes hissing inside your ear

a snake hissing sounds like the wind and the wind

sounds like screaming, but there is no wind and

the only screams here come from your head.

I guess this is what it’s like between you and I

and I’m only just finding out that this room’s not

so empty after all. There’s ash stuck beneath

my sole, and my footprints tell me I’ve come from

somewhere so far away, the mountains have

grown smaller and there’s only love songs in the

air because all the birds have gone to sleep.

They’ve been asleep too long, I’m afraid they’re

all dead. The trees are bare, their arms, such

stringy, little things now. If I were a tree,

a couple of tourists about to get married would

come from foreign lands to watch the sun set

in my homeland, they’d take photographs and

pluck our flowers, they’d eat our food and carve

their names upon my flesh, believing this would

turn them immortal. But trees die, and love dies.

And if I were a tree, I’d wrap my roots around

my chest and squeeze and squeeze because

everything sounds strange inside an empty room.

—request

Anonymous asked - "could you write something (preferably in a letter format) about how you will always be there for your ex boyfriend, no matter how much he has hurt you?"

Letter to the Past

owls-neyelashes asked - "My friend (Emma- tumblr Lpxen) is running a new online project as part of her PhD - if you could help that would be amazing. The survey looks at wellbeing, responses to stress and social support. It also contains a measure of self-harm. Anyone aged 16 +can take part (it doesnt matter if they've self harmed ever or not). It takes around 20 mins. The link is: www(.)psychology(.)nottingham(.)ac(.)uk/ staff/ lpxen/ study2(.) html Any help spreading the link would be awesome. Thanks (-: xxx"

x

Anonymous asked - "I know you must be busy, & overwhelmed. Is it possible you could write something for me? I am with the love of my life. Everything I could ever ask for.. But there is a side to him I loathe. Moments when he is awful to me. Violent, scary, hateful. But others when he is like a lovely flower and I am being kissed by an angel... Please. It would mean the world to me. I love your words, they bring tears to my eyes."

Aw, thank you.

If bruise were a colour

finally updated my /writings compilation page! check it

Anonymous asked - "Okay so I'm white and my boyfriend is black. We've been together for five years and are still so in love. It feels like were an old couple ahha. But yeah, he's been my high school sweetheart. Sometimes we get rude comments or awkward looks from people simply because we're an interracial couple. We pull through it though and niether of us are embarrassed. We recently got engaged and we just really love each other through thick and thin. Maybe you could turn that into poetry. Thank you"

Like the Rock of Gibraltar

Really loved reading this. Congratulations on the engagement! Thanks for letting me tell your story. :)

Anonymous asked - "Would you mind writing a piece inspired by my current relationship? We've been in love for three years now and finally got together, but after a year I found out he'd been cheating since the start. He got me addicted to cigarettes, love songs and things that make me feel apathetic because it's relief in comparison to missing him, and I've begun to self harm badly again, from my hips to my knees is more wound than flesh. leaving him killed me. (I'll be okay, just would love a poem for it..)"

x

Wish you all the best.

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