Monochrome Me

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mimickingmaelstroms:

Every night, there’s only me, the bathroom mirror, and shallow breaths that I have to constantly run a forearm over my reflection to keep it from drowning. Miles away, other seventeen-year old girls are burrowing their faces into pillows while I burrow mine in more layers of foundation. Miles much farther away, seventeen-year old girls are waking up from a good night’s sleep, getting ready for school while I slather more red on my lips, getting ready for trembling thighs and dirty looks catapulted my way. The doctor told me that no amount of makeup would be sufficient enough to cover up my kind of decay. And my kind of decay comes with a watered-down hourglass that counts years instead.

There’s only strangers now and from them, I’ve learnt that letting go isn’t such a hard thing after all. Sometimes I pass by them in the daylight and they refuse to look me in the eye. Most of them have sons on their shoulders, a wife just an arm’s length away, and I imagine them coming home to a roof above their heads just to sneak out the back door past midnight. And then there are people I used to know. These were the kind that was much harder to let go of. Sometimes I see them with sons on their shoulders, a wife just an arm’s length away and I can’t help but wonder if they sneak out the back door past midnight. They never recognise me, of course. That’s when I understood what homeless people might feel like, maybe even like rabid dogs that prowl the streets rummaging through other people’s waste. To them, people like us are merely a part of their morning jog scenery, best left in the rearview mirror. Only on the occasion that they don’t run a red light do they notice us and ponder why life is such a cruel thing. And when they step on the gas, we are reduced back to rearview mirror mountaintops.

I’m not blaming them for living their lives however much I sound like I am. But sometimes they ask questions and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind. Because I want to know what it’s like to not be called a woman again. I want to know what it’s like to be a girl and wear makeup for myself, not for the satisfaction of men who see me as something more than their wives and much less than a pound of ground meat in the market because they don’t see the blood, they don’t see what happens behind the curtains. And I’m glad they don’t.

Because I don’t think they’d be able to go on living and still call it a life, the way I do. I have always been the last in line, the one everyone cuts through so they don’t have to wait. The doctor told me it won’t take any longer now. But I’m tired of waiting.

—request

Angels in the 21st Century

mimickingmaelstroms:

She didn’t have white, feathered wings like all the pictures
and books made us believe. Her halo was a velvet, banal thing
that circled her neck, which either itches or chokes her.
And she had talons painted so dark, you’d be able to see

your bewildered expression looking back at you. Everyone saw
her. She wasn’t like some saint who only materialised in front
of one man in the mountains who had just committed one heinous
crime and was probably drunk and about to jump off a cliff.

Everyone saw her with a smug look on her face. Everyone saw
her reading a book cross-legged in the park, her hair blowing
in the wind. Everyone saw her drinking cheap coffee in a
local diner at three in the afternoon. She was new in town

and the people from a couple of floors down say she’s a run-
away. No one knows where she came from and where she’s
intending to go. No one asked questions. A week later, she
was standing in front of my class, teaching history. We read

about wars and oppressive rulers. And I found myself watching
the evening news more often. Cutlery clattered in the air while
just an ocean away, there was only gunshot. And cigarette
smoke stopped bothering me, when I started hearing bombs

dropping in my sleep and smoke’s coming from the fire a
block away that’s devouring the very building where I used to
press my forehead to its dusty floor. When she asked us to
write a ten-page essay on what good violence and war brings,

I submitted a ten-page essay that said nothing over and over
again. She wasn’t a mirage clothed in light. She couldn’t even
play one instrument. A week after that, no one saw her in town
again. Sometimes, I like to think that she has finally found what
she was searching for. Other times, I picture a bullet to her head.

—request

"you always used to say
that your day had gone fine
and I always wondered what
you meant by fine.
is it when the skies are blue
and the birds are chirping?
you called it picnic weather
once, when we were inside
and having breakfast
for early dinner because we
were so broke, the cracks
on the vase could pass for art.
that was when you started
pointing fingers and I wonder
when I might decide that I’ve
finally had enough."

- MJLbecause i still love you today (request)

Every night, there’s only me, the bathroom mirror, and shallow breaths that I have to constantly run a forearm over my reflection to keep it from drowning. Miles away, other seventeen-year old girls are burrowing their faces into pillows while I burrow mine in more layers of foundation. Miles much farther away, seventeen-year old girls are waking up from a good night’s sleep, getting ready for school while I slather more red on my lips, getting ready for trembling thighs and dirty looks catapulted my way. The doctor told me that no amount of makeup would be sufficient enough to cover up my kind of decay. And my kind of decay comes with a watered-down hourglass that counts years instead.

There’s only strangers now and from them, I’ve learnt that letting go isn’t such a hard thing after all. Sometimes I pass by them in the daylight and they refuse to look me in the eye. Most of them have sons on their shoulders, a wife just an arm’s length away, and I imagine them coming home to a roof above their heads just to sneak out the back door past midnight. And then there are people I used to know. These were the kind that was much harder to let go of. Sometimes I see them with sons on their shoulders, a wife just an arm’s length away and I can’t help but wonder if they sneak out the back door past midnight. They never recognise me, of course. That’s when I understood what homeless people might feel like, maybe even like rabid dogs that prowl the streets rummaging through other people’s waste. To them, people like us are merely a part of their morning jog scenery, best left in the rearview mirror. Only on the occasion that they don’t run a red light do they notice us and ponder why life is such a cruel thing. And when they step on the gas, we are reduced back to rearview mirror mountaintops.

I’m not blaming them for living their lives however much I sound like I am. But sometimes they ask questions and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind. Because I want to know what it’s like to not be called a woman again. I want to know what it’s like to be a girl and wear makeup for myself, not for the satisfaction of men who see me as something more than their wives and much less than a pound of ground meat in the market because they don’t see the blood, they don’t see what happens behind the curtains. And I’m glad they don’t.

Because I don’t think they’d be able to go on living and still call it a life, the way I do. I have always been the last in line, the one everyone cuts through so they don’t have to wait. The doctor told me it won’t take any longer now. But I’m tired of waiting.

—request

"you think of this as a milestone, as a huge part of your life that you’d look back on once you’re old and grey and bedridden. but it’s not. it won’t really matter. you’ll be with the same people you don’t necessarily hate, but don’t like either. you’ll meet people you’d learn to hate. it’s sad because school’s becoming more synonymous to social life than education. but this not really mattering once you’re old and grey and bedridden doesn’t really matter to you right now. because there’s only your knees buckling right now, heart thumping, mind racing. your senses are heightened and everything seems zoomed in. so burn that magnifying glass and look at the bigger picture."

- MJLno one hears quickened breaths in this loud world (request)

Angels in the 21st Century

She didn’t have white, feathered wings like all the pictures
and books made us believe. Her halo was a velvet, banal thing
that circled her neck, which either itches or chokes her.
And she had talons painted so dark, you’d be able to see

your bewildered expression looking back at you. Everyone saw
her. She wasn’t like some saint who only materialised in front
of one man in the mountains who had just committed one heinous
crime and was probably drunk and about to jump off a cliff.

Everyone saw her with a smug look on her face. Everyone saw
her reading a book cross-legged in the park, her hair blowing
in the wind. Everyone saw her drinking cheap coffee in a
local diner at three in the afternoon. She was new in town

and the people from a couple of floors down say she’s a run-
away. No one knows where she came from and where she’s
intending to go. No one asked questions. A week later, she
was standing in front of my class, teaching history. We read

about wars and oppressive rulers. And I found myself watching
the evening news more often. Cutlery clattered in the air while
just an ocean away, there was only gunshot. And cigarette
smoke stopped bothering me, when I started hearing bombs

dropping in my sleep and smoke’s coming from the fire a
block away that’s devouring the very building where I used to
press my forehead to its dusty floor. When she asked us to
write a ten-page essay on what good violence and war brings,

I submitted a ten-page essay that said nothing over and over
again. She wasn’t a mirage clothed in light. She couldn’t even
play one instrument. A week after that, no one saw her in town
again. Sometimes, I like to think that she has finally found what
she was searching for. Other times, I picture a bullet to her head.

—request

Anonymous asked - "I miss him so much it hurts , and I don't know what to do without him ..."

dorcusmeadows:

mimickingmaelstroms:

this is what i do:

  • turn out the lights. take a shower in the dark. it may seem like a thousand hummingbird wings tapping incessantly on your skin at first, but soon, they’ll become a steady river flowing, you’ll forget they were ever made of even tinier matter.
  • watch foreign movies without turning on the subtitles. turn up the volume. fill the entire room with conversation that you aren’t a part of. listen. you’re a ghost now. listen. until you begin to have dreams of letting people into your life again. listen. until you desire to be a part of someone else’s life again.
  • press flowers in between pages of your favourite book. let the days pass. you’ll forget. but anytime you come to remember, they will still be there, more beautiful than ever. you’ll remember. but this time, you no longer will desire to forget. this time, it won’t hurt as much.

This is the best advise for getting over somone iv ever seen!!

driveawaywithme:

you’ve got gardeners for grandparents

mimickingmaelstroms:

so growing up, you’ve been told to wait.
carnations need not sway in the breeze
for the butterflies to come, they just do.
you were taught patience and prayer
and all the two-syllable words that begin
with a p, every good grandparent tells
their granddaughter when she feels
like no one will ever love her back.
no one ever told you that it’s okay
to go searching for love so when
all your friends have finally found
their’s, you feel left out again. like
five years ago when they drove out
of town for a week without you.
like when all the girls in your class
have gotten their period and you’re
still reading nancy drew. like the wild
flower that claws its way up to the sun,
only to find itself mid-field of roses
so it wishes to reverse grow and re-
grow in the middle of a highway
to nowhere instead. because there,

have a likelier chance of getting run
over by one of those eight-wheeled
trucks delivering earth to the cemetery
than to feel alone. because your
grandparents never felt your kind of
alone. because when they think
of alone, they see a desert in their
mind’s eye. they see echoing caves
when the bats have flown out,
having no plans of ever coming back.
maybe our kind of alone is the
sadder kind because it’s the kind
that makes you not fear death anymore.

—request

maybe our kind of alone is sadder because we are surrounded by people

and they’re all happy too, yeah

Anonymous asked - "Helloo, I came across your page and you have absolutely brilliant and beautiful work. I, as well as many I'm sure, have a poem request. I am 17, and an escort. I just found out I have a disease. Now normally I would have no shame and not be anonymous, but under theses circumstances, I think that's best. I've been supporting myself for a year now, and this lifestyle is very hard to live. I really love what you do, I think it kinda gives people hope. You write like you understand. & not many do"

This breaks my heart. But thank you for letting me tell your story. 

xxx

Sending you much love.

Anonymous asked - "Your poetry is lovely! You have so much talent. I was wondering if you could write me a poem, they make me feel. And I've been numb for a while, except for loneliness."

Thank you! :)

Feel what? Who are they? Been trying to write for this, but can’t seem to finish it. I have another request sent me to write about loneliness, so I thought I’d just do one for this and that.

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