Silently, fragily I turn my heard, like a butterfly just out of the cocoon. Same doubt, same hope. Same distopian-like aesthetic.
But everything is pale white. And me… I’m a just girl with eyes filled with longing and grief, and maybe a hint of regret.
                                    Follow the dying stars.
                            Follow the whispering. Follow his heart. Follow him.

I’m out of the void. I survived.
& I don’t cling to fracturing/fractured dreams anymore.
I don’t cling to worlds that can never be.
I just am. Who I am.

I’m the girl that fell in love with a boy with dark moon eyes.
Pain-filled eyes that leave me helpless.
Breathless
I want to sink into the black.

I’m just a girl, with green-grey eyes and the kind of longing that breeds eternal sadness.
I’m a girl with words burning on my lips.
I’m made of roses and moonlight and sadness. Lilies and loneliness and teardrops. I’m a poet-girl, tiptoeing on fragile dreams, holding onto borrowed hope. I’m the girl who falls for ghost-boys and writes about dream fragments or the sea or you. I’m a girl that maybe in another life, you could have loved.

I’m a girl, unsettled, underneath a sky of ashes.
I’m the girl with the broken heart that makes herself bleed and gets drunk so she won’t have to remember how hope only gives way to disappointment. The girl that asks you to hit her because pain is all she feels. (And deep down she wants to see if you’ll do it.)
Maybe she wishes you’d save her.
But you can’t.
You won’t.

I’m the girl that loved you so much. But now she needs to let you go. Because holding on hurts too much.

Maybe in another life you could have loved me.
Maybe in another life I’d be enough.

Worlds and dreams and tomorrows that could never,
should never,
would never happen.
(dreams of us – oh, what foolish dreams those were)
(but I’m awake now – I know ’cause it hurts so much)
(I know ’cause there are ashes where you should have been)
(I know because the sky is dust and we were never even really here)
(It’s just so dark.)
(I always want what I can’t have.)

Your dark brown eyes are flickering, like stars on a dusky sky.
Rose petals float in rushing waters.
Like ghosts of my dreams.
& I wish you could stay.
& I’d carry all the pain with me. I wouldn’t let you have it.
But now the jasmines are withering and it’s too late. The moon wanes and everything left unsaid will be forever lost.

Now all that remains are remnants of a love that would never be.
I really think it was love babe. You just couldn’t handle it.

(A bittersweet anticipation at the tip of my lips.)
//To the boy with the dark eyes… You are wrong. I can feel your pain.
And I wish you could really see me. But now the sky is empty and hope has faded.
Rose petals falling on tear puddles. Sadness is inevitable.

I won’t forget you.

The moon is waning and somewhere a star is collapsing into a black hole.
It’s so dark now. And so cold.
Life’s so fleeting. Our dreams caught in gossamer webs, in strings of time.
                  // Did you use to believe? To have hope?
Tell me, when did we lose it all? When did we finally compromise?
Tell me, do you love her like you love me?

& I think of all the futures that would-never-be (could-never-be).
Everything we create, everything we destroy.
// (all the remnants of us that we just let die)
Without you, I can’t dream. Everything is dull. And the tide is pulling me away.
Away from here, forever.

Will you love me before the end?

All the tears I didn’t let fall, are now threatening to drown me. The sky is stained and I know you think I’ll be here forever, but I won’t wait forever. I can’t. They say it won’t be raining forever, that the sun will shine again, but tomorrow is just a word and promises are brittle. They break. Easily. And once they do, you can’t put the pieces back together. Once I leave I will never come back. And it’s not that I didn’t love you, I loved you so much. But you couldn’t. And I’m barely breathing. I have to forget you. I have to let you go. I have to go.

I wish you could see me.
               (but you can’t)
I wish we met in a different timeline.
I wish we were happy, the way we will never be.
I wish you could understand.

I wish I could tell you.

This pain, this piercing, acidic pain; this pain I have to carry with me, that only bleeding can distract me from it, this pain – a thousand suns burning inside me – I never asked for it. My only crime was to love you. My only crime was to fall for you. My only crime.

And I die. For you. Everyday.

No, you don’t understand. I will always love you, no matter what. I’ll always care for you, I’ll always bleed, always die, every single day.

And I tried to forget,
but your voice echoes in my head.
A constant longing.
A constant noose around my neck.

I wanted you so badly to be Rory. My Rory. But maybe I was never Amelia, just Ophelia drowning, and you’ll never be able to resuscitate me, because you don’t love me enough to put breath back into my lungs.
Maybe I was mad all along.
Maybe you could never love me.
Maybe this is goodnight.

(But I’ll never forget.)
                I can’t forget.
A thousand suns burning inside me…
A thousand suns
         and I’m still not ashes…
I still believe.

I’m the girl with rain in my veins. The girl that almost died. Now my thoughts are tainted, stained with all of my pain.
And in the darkest night, all we can do is bleed.
All we can do is wait…

                  Or maybe we can dream ourselves away.

I may be silent, but I was never diffident. I don’t break. I don’t give up. I cling to my dreams; no safety net.

I know pain, but I also know hope.
I’m held together with  hope – a rose out of the ashes.
(A girl molded by violence, but now she is stardust.)

Sometimes the silence is ugly. Distance is ugly.
I wish we could plant flowers here.
I wish moonlight could sustain us.

I wish you could really see (me).

And though I can never forget, I’ll always remember how you showed me another way. How you gave me hope for another day.

I’m the girl with fires behind my eyes and lighting in my head that makes me unable to concentrate, unable to stop moving, to stop the noise in my head, the voices that aren’t mine. A million thoughts at once – confusion overcomes me. I cry moonlight, I’m burning up, I want to touch the sun, until I’m ashes.

And then the pain comes (so much pain – it constricts my breathing) and the grief, the endless grief, so dark, like death in my mind.
Despair creeps up on me, the agony of a thousand dying stars, the death of tomorrow – they drape me in midnight, in a black darker that the empty sky. Thick, inescapable black that seeps through my skin and replaces the blood in my veins. Every bit of good is gone. Every bit of hope is gone.

. . .

When you see me I’m the girl with the grey-sky eyes, anhedonic and numb. (But you’ll never know.) I hide behind the brightest smile. (I lie, I lie.)
But I’m still fighting the fight that never ends.

. . .

I know that sometimes the sky gets too dark. That you drift between days without feeling anything.
I know how sometimes you have to bleed.
How you are holding inside secrets and wars.
How you want him to stay.
How you seal dreams in bottles for safekeeping, but you never break the seal.
How you are so afraid that you won’t scream.

How despite everything you still survive.

A starless sky. Silence. Just silence.

My tears are suspended like a last heartbeat. 

I try to breathe, I try to write the pain away.

(I miss you.)

I’m a girl with moonlight on her lips. Insomnia, an unraveling ocean.

Broken love, bruised moon.

I stitch myself up (forgive, just forgive). But the rose has no petals left.

A river flows, it carries away all the moments that can never come. 

Loneliness is pooling and I’m starved for oxygen. Promise me: it will not end in regret.

(I still miss you.)

I’m a girl suffocating on roses – unclaimed love letters. A quiet storm.
I’m the poet-girl drifting between evanescent dreams and cloudy days. Longing for what fills the void.

(I miss you, like I miss the moon.)

Your face fades, but I still remember your smile. 

And I’m a girl, trying to survive. I can barely contain the ocean inside.

My heart aches.
 A never-ending state of suspension/uncertainty.

Dream static, a half-breath, a constant sadness. I wish you were here.

The sky is violet, and I’ve been waiting for so long. In my last dream I asked for rain so I could hide. 

A flood of lies and half-lies (“I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Tomorrow I’ll be ok.“).

Fading bruises, fading faith. Tomorrow I’ll be somewhere else.

       I’m a girl inside an unlocked cage. 
      “One of these days I’ll run away“, I say. “One of these days.”

. . . . . .

I whisper his name, (oh god, we are lucky we are mortal) and sink into my own dying sunset. I sink with the sun.

And now it’s all dark again.

And I still miss you.

. . . . . .

An echo from a dream or a different timeline. Fragments of a love story. I’m not your Annabel Lee. I’m not Amy and you are not Rory. Maybe in a different time… Different place… Maybe…

But for now let’s call it a night.

Dreams have become static, like raindrops suspended on rose-petals. Moonlight falls softly piercing veils of uncertainty.
Silence fills the empty space. & I’m drifting towards something fleeting, like the nightingale’s song, like happiness ^{promises of happiness}, like days with you.
 
Sadness is inevitable.
 I can never really reach you: (the boy with the dark brown eyes.)
 I’m the girl that has broken all the hourglasses; the girl with the tear-stained love letters written at 2am.
 I’m the girl that loves a boy, but when I knock no one’s home.


It wasn’t a song, it wasn’t really a goodbye, it was more like a sigh. I didn’t even raise my eyes when I let the flowers be carried away by the soft wind. It was like forgetting a dream: I remembered a feeling, a sense of melancholy; a timeline that was aborted. And then a stillness. It could have been great, you know. Maybe.

Realisation comes, as I try to remember all the reasons I’m holding on – and I find none. Darling, in the space of an almost-whole-year I remained locked in the falsehood that just breathing was enough. Just believing was enough. & I waited. I waited for those random moments when I forgot I only saw the world through veils. & I do miss the days that never came…
But I think we were just killing time, you and me, and faith is overrated.
I think I can see clearer now, now that the fog of our breath has cleared and I’m not censoring myself just because the world died before (it will die again) (and yes, darling, we’ll survive that too).
 
– & now I let you go – – –

I’m a girl born under a greying sky. A poet-girl, pale with eyes filled with sea and sky.
I’m living underneath viole(n)t skies stained with streaks of moonlight and sadness.
I gather stardust that slips like time-sand from my hands; like tears when the lilies wither.
I’m a girl with wor(l)ds forming at the tip of my lips. A girl, heartbeat by heartbeat, longing to be known; to know.
 
At the edge of today, I’m standing at the shore just before the tide, salt-tears burning the corners of my eyes.
Dreams are dying, but I’m still.
Dandelion seeds settle around me. I’ve only one wish.
Every sigh, every plucked daisy petal is for you.
…
I’m a girl collecting sad letters by doomed lovers. I’m preserving snowflakes, as if eternity could ever be tangible.
As if man-made wings could ever withstand the fire. As if you could love me.
As if you could burn the way I burn…
As if…
 

I’m not sure about May. About how the days passed. I remember laughing.
I remember ghosts touching my eyelids when I closed my eyes. I remember the sky and the sea. I remember them in his eyes.
I remember leftover flowers withering, and my eyes turning grey and my heart beating too fast. Or too slow.
I remember dreaming of falling, but not of drowning: I kept pulling at the moon, clutching it as tightly as I could.
I remember the silence at the end of the dream. The silence trapped in the teardrops dripping on my face.
I remember hazy days, silent days, loud days, hot days, long days.
And a sense of emptiness. Always there.

April was a month of wishful thinking and soft star collisions.
It was meeting old lovers in dimly lit rooms and writing words that stained my hands.
It was laughing and watching the moon’s dalliances while the tide uncovered remnants of my lost self.
 
It was standing still at the edge of today, like a candle burning, dreams within dreams unfolding.
Contemplation was a constant. A tangle of melancholy, fire and hope.
 
It was once again adding another candle on my cake. It was friends holding my hands and becoming temporary suns.
(They brought me dyed flowers in bright colours. And they sang to me.)
 
April was a month of quiet wishing and of writing aching words. It was a month of clinging to dreams formed by the moon on lonely nights.

March was quite anticipation. Flower petals and snowflakes. No stars though. The sky remained dark, reminding me of the loss and the tears I could not cry. A fast-moving clock – that I forgot to wear on my wrist – counted away my seconds, my days, the lives I would not live. But I know who I am now. I know how to set the ghosts free, how to let go.
 
There were snowdrops outside my window. There was a bird flying; an unexpected song.
March was fluttering eyelids and cold hands and laughing hard with friends. It was winter and spring, secrets and rain and warm tea.
It was another month unraveling. Another month of quite longing and anticipation.
 

January came in silence.
They poured me champagne in a clear glass which I stained with my lipstick.
I wore a black dress, like echoes of sleepless nights, and eyes, like reflections of flame and smoke.
 
January was too slow. Too fast.
I made plans about days that could/would never come. I weaved fragile dreams.
I wanted snow, star-filled nights, non-flammable wings. I wanted blood-rose love.
I wanted all boundaries to shatter.
 
I wanted the moon, the planets, the whole sky. The light and the darkness. The fleeting and the forever.
Tears and shadows.
Blood and dust.
Love and rain.
 

2017 was numbness and sleep-walking and trying to reach something undefined, something elusive, something almost (too) sad.
 
The months were quiet, dark, fast and expendable. There were strangers, masquerading as boyfriends, leaving cigarette ashes on my pillows. Though it didn’t always rain, the sky was mostly grey. Cloudy, dreary.
Something was always missing, but March was different. Something was taken away. Someone. I didn’t cry. But quietly I begged the moon for comfort.
 
I kept going on, even though my eyes were filled with hushed tears that I didn’t dare to cry.
With neither a map, nor a safety net, I walked through the fog, through broken days.
I lost my voice twice for days and cut my knees climbing rocks. I travelled and laughed with friends, but the weight of all the knowledge I shouldn’t had was crushing my chest.
Last day of April I got two cakes for my birthday; but I forgot to make a wish either time.
 
In June I talked about my poetry aloud. The days passed and I kept writing and going out with people who wore dark clothes and drunk whiskey. Who told me I was prettier with glazed eyes and blood-red lips.
 
In November I got to see my girlfriend again. My sweetest friend. But the last months of the year were mostly tiptoeing on broken glass, every time hoping I wouldn’t bleed. I thought I found hope, but it was only a train ticket to hell.
 
And I tried to leave it all behind. I replaced the grief with moonlight and though it hurt, like flames and silence, it didn’t matter. Because I was trying.

I tried. I’m trying.
 
Eventually I’ll be out.
 

Do you ever think of me?

November was drinking too much coffee and almost trying free-falling.
It was having old lovers in my bed, and letting their smoke settle around me like a (dust) cloud.
It was seeing my girlfriend again: for a fleeting moment in the cold, promising eternity as we were being pulled apart.
It was dressing up for events while outside it was pouring; and it was laughing with my friends and trying too hard to hold on to that feeling.
 
But there was a sadness emanating from my inability to reach him, that boy, the ghost whose face haunted me. Or maybe it was more than one ghost I dreamt of,
…but it was always the same ending.
 
November was cloudy; something undefined weighing me down. Something bitter, something I could not bleed out.
It stained the days like an absence, like grief. It was a sadness that stuck on everything and made it hard to breathe.
 
But I’m still right here…
 
                 & I wonder, do you ever think of me?
 

Who are you?
I’m a girl; dark brown hair, green eyes, pale skin. A girl writing wor(l)ds and code and dreams.

What are you afraid of?
I’m afraid of black holes pulling me in. I’m afraid of the emptiness, the utter despair, the inability to reach you.
 
& I’m afraid of those doorless white rooms, where everything is white and we are fading and no one notices.

What are you against?
I’m fighting against gravity, against the fear that stems from ignorance.

What would you tell the one you love?
I’m always, always, right here for you…

What’s your sexual orientation?
Kiss a girl who likes other girls and a boy who used to kiss boys. The boy with the beautifully-coloured eyes and singing voice. (I can always hear him singing.)
Fear and ignorance cannot really hold us apart; please remember that.

What mistakes have you made?
I was silent for too long. I let them take so much, I let their words hurt me. I let the hate and anger and fear almost win. Sticks and stones they say. But words, words are so much more powerful…

Have you ever stolen anything?
I’ve stolen the moon once. Hid it behind my ribcage. Away from here, I gleamed like silver fire; a dream of you always pulsing in my veins. I was never fragile.
But it burnt, it burnt so much.

Have you ever lied?
I have been lying for so long… It’s always being too easy (“yes, I’m fine, no, it doesn’t hurt, I’m fine, I’m fine) – hold back the tears, let them burn your eyes – they’ll never, ever know…

Why do you write?
Because when I don’t write, I stop breathing too.

“Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.” – Anne Sexton

“If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write.” – Martin Luther

What is the most daring thing to do in a lifetime?
Endure, dream, believe, live.
Be yourself and live.

October was restlessness and indecisiveness. Laughing at nothing, trying to write and staring at a frayed sky.

• Some days were cold. Some days were draining, others were slow.
• I sat through a film, but there was a song in my head and never really saw the film.
• I travelled to look at art and slept in a room with red curtains.
• Raindrops fell on me and someone whispered something (in French) in my ear.
• Someone left sweets for me at work.
• I think I fell in love with a boy I cannot touch. A ghost. A dream.
• I dreamt of quiet seas and starlit nights.
• I didn’t go to the haunted house on the 31st; I gave the candy to my friend.

“Things end. That’s all. Everything ends, and it’s always sad. But everything begins again too, and that’s… always happy. Be happy. I’ll look after everything else.” – The Doctor

It was summer, and it was hot and it was dark; a dark summer night with only a sliver of a moon on the sky. It was almost sad. The kind of sad that leaves a bitter aftertaste.

Silence stagnated like a pool of pain-softened dreams – just like those I kept next to me. There was something delicate, like soft tears dripping, something elusive live a clouded reflection; there was something inevitable like grief, like endings.
And I just stood there, barefoot on the edge of the ocean. On the edge of something I thought I lost long time ago.

_{(I thought if I held my breath and bandaged myself, they would never know.)}

I was the girl that always drifted away, a collector of “what-ifs”, always moving between fire clouds and empty spaces. I was the girl with the eyes made of storms and secrets kept deeper that anyone would reach. I was the quiet girl on a hot summer night, and I could see the stars decaying, my wishes dissipating.

I could see the world ending and yet beginning at the same time. Because despite everything I still clang to poetry. I still believed in love collisions and dream-weaved futures. Because deep down I never really gave up.
You see, I was the girl that saw through the blindfold, beyond the wreckage. I was the girl that survived. Ophelia saved. By herself.

Currently watching: Blutengel ❤️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPLor5HjFgo

Slowly stepping on rose-petal piles, hands trembling, heart beating faster.
My lips are blue. The vibrating words in my mouth are begging to be released.
 
When I was a little girl I read books, because they were my Tardises and I could go anywhere in time and space.
And now, I need escape again…
 
The stars here are decaying and my cobwebbed dreams are fading away. Nothing soothes the ache, the sharp-edged ghosts, the unrequited love.
 
I try to see through the fog. I try to keep breathing. But grief overwhelms and night prevails.
 
I keep going without a map. No safety net. Eyes wide open: a patchwork of goodbyes and eclipsed skies.
It’s sad. Like the ashes of a love promise.
 
Time’s running out. Kiss me. Pass me the liquor. No, I’m fine. (Don’t worry I know how to stitch myself up.)
 
There’s a hurricane where home should be. There’s dust where you should be. Dust or ashes or burnt tomorrows.
And I wish you could understand. I wish you didn’t just leave.
I wish I knew how to let go.

May was sadness and a sun hiding behind rain clouds. It was travelling even more and going out and hiding behind a laughter that wasn’t quite my own.
I did so many fun things, but everything was obscured by a grey-veil. A cold, numbing veil that covered up my days and left behind trails like muddied snowflakes.
The days seemed fleeting. There was loneliness and moonlight pooling in my almost grey eyes. A sorrowful silence between breaths and words.
 
And out of the shadows, there was a familiar, yet dark voice. Asking me where I am. (“I’m right here.” “Just let go…, let go…“) ^Sometimes. _{It’s too dark out there.} ^{& some people pull you too deep down…}
 
But it’s almost summer now. And I’ve already discarded my old cocoons like cigarette ashes. For I’ve realised that all my limits are self-inflicted. And I might have been Persephone, but Hades: you only rule the dead and I never even cared for you anyway.

April was unkept journals and purple flowers blooming on my driveway. It was silence, and uncertainty, and symptoms of increased gravity. It was travelling and recurring dreams and trying to built my own lighthouse.
 
With dilated eyes, dark as black holes, I watched him smoke his cigarettes and scatter the ashes; he smiled, but it sounded like goodbye.
               (Breath in, breath out.) – Goodnight for now…
 
And then a voice, I haven’t heard for months. Are you ok? Do you want to meet?
{Do you still care?}
 
 
I see my world reflected inside raindrops on flower petals and everything is fragile, impermanent, everything but soul-made poetry. I see you and I exhale lies, because the truth won’t set us free. {Do you really want to know me?}
 
 
Last day of April – one more birthday, one more candle. Poet girls rarely survive, but my heart is still beating. And I’m so close to believe in the girl in the mirror.

“Please stand up and fight

against the sickness deep inside

You are much too young to die
”
      – The Sickness, Terminal Choice

{This is for all the people out there, who are fighting chronic illnesses.}

 
Years and years lost… I was so young, diagnosed with something so horrible. A life tainted with grief and pain and isolation. I was frightened by my own darkness.
Fire in my head, ocean in my lungs. Take the pills, they say. But who’s going to take me home?

Winter’s over and visiting hours are over too. The roses in the vase will bloom and then turn to dust while I sleep.
Take your pills, they say. But who’s going to take me home?

 
*~*~*~*~*
 
Morning comes and we are still fighting the unending fight; because there is hope embedded in the sunrise, in the nightingale’s love-song to the rose. There is hope in the way light goes through the painted shut window.
So, don’t give up. Just don’t give up. Together we can fight the darkness.
 

“I hate this feeling. Like Im’ here, but I’m not. Like someone cares. But they don’t. Like I belong somewhere else, anywhere but here, and escape lies just past that snowy window, cool and crisp as the February air.” – Ellen Hopkins

It’s getting dark now. It’s getting painful again.
I can feel the sky being torn in two, I can feel the agony of the nightingale who died for a love that was no love, I can feel my dreams being crumpled up, my tomorrows shattered. And all I can do is silently bleed.
 
It’s getting so much darker now. My eyes are turning black. I’m fading, becoming one with the emptiness.
There is nothing comfortable about numbness. It’s like I’m dying and I can’t even cry. I can’t even tell you everything I wish I could.
 
I don’t want to settle in the darkness and the cold.
Somewhere buried below layers and layers of dreams is you, but I can never really reach you. And now, every dream is turning inwards, becoming a black hole.
 
         We won’t meet again…
You float away from here and I become rain.
 

— A letter to Alice

Dear Alice,
 
are you still running? Running away? Running late?
I’m supposed to tell you to stop running. But Alice, my dearest Alice, I knew a girl like you once. Falling down rabbit holes that go straight into the darkness. Swimming in her own tears. Crushing tea parties. And the queen wanted her head too.
  
It was like moving in circles. She “ran very fast for a long time”, but still ended up at the same place. The trees were red and the sky violet. The cheshire cat laughed at her and the rose bushes were bleeding. Maybe she was just upside-down. Too big, too small, never enough. And yes, “we are all mad here”, and nothing’s quite real, but she was still missing the key to the door.
 
Alice, are you crying? I’m only supposed to offer you some tea and ask if you are taking your pills…
 
But Alice can’t you see? You are enough. You are the key to the door. Your own door. Go on. Run. Don’t let them stop you. I won’t tell a soul. Go. For her. For me. For all the lost ones.
 
 

I’ve always collected things. Gifts and concert tickets and sea-shells and old books. And sad things. Beautiful, fragile things that are so ephemeral. I’ve tried to preserve them, to suspend them in time. Teardrops, and dream-remnants and memories of happier times. Melancholy and nostalgia. Clocks that only strike thirteen and mirrors with broken reflections. Pressed flowers, that will never wither, but will never be quite alive either.
 
I wanted to capture rain and your cigarette smoke as it came out through your lips. I wanted to protect those old, handwritten love letters before the ink faded completely.
 
And I keep the nightingale’s voice inside a glass jar next to bottles filled up with inner-storms.
I have heart-lockets filled with promises kept safely in the deep of my room, so they can never break them.
Sepia photographs of young people smiling that I don’t recognize – echoes of past times, now collecting dust.
 
A candle-wax sunset is dripping on the floor like fireflies: silently, silently. The world will end with a whimper, just like Eliot said, and this is all that will remain. A collection of who we were and who we wish we were.
 

~*~*~*~*~ New tumblr (rosedreams-whispers) ~*~*~*~*~

I have been so quiet. Withdrawn in a universe made of black holes. Only the raven sang. And I cried and cried and cried. Where have you been? I’ve waited for so long; I have been waiting, waiting.
But not anymore.
I grew up. I swam in those seemingly fathomless oceans of tears, until I was out. Until I could breathe again: oxygen, light, hope.
Like dandelion seeds, I’m slipping away from the darkness and though it will always be a part of me I will never, never, let it – again – become all I am.
 
We all fight for something. Let it be for something beautiful. Something worth the ruins we leave behind.
 

Silence has fallen yet again and it does’t matter who you are anymore. Sadness has turned to apathy.
I’m still haunted – ghosts of all the dreams I once had.
I swallow the empty air. I’m stronger than this. And though the cold and hate has soaked the ground, my words will never fade.
They will never fade.

Underwater, I can still dream. Oxygen gets low, and starlight’s lost, but I can still dream. It feels like inhaling a storm, a beautiful, almost suffocating star-implosion inside of me.
It’s almost February now. Water-drops fall off my lips and disappear quickly.
Silent waves crush on my skin and every secret kept in the sea, is now flowing inside of me. I drift, lungs filled with saltwater and tears.
 
                    & underwater, I can still dream.
 

I am the girl who sleeps at 4:00am and wakes at noon, I’m the girl with the green eyes and numb hands. I’ve survived black holes and car crushes and too-many-endings. I’ve survived.
When my cousin asked me what I want to be when I grow up I said I wanted to be stardust floating on the darkest sky. But maybe I’m already too grown up and I will never fly… I think I’m afraid of falling/failing. I’m afraid of relapsing, of those white rooms filled with whiteness (emptiness), white lights and white pills. I’m afraid of our fragility. I’m afraid you will never come (back) for me.
 
I’m just a girl, too young to drown, too old to believe anymore. It doesn’t matter what the sea-waves whisper anymore, or how cold I am. I keep walking on tear puddles, molding abandoned dreams to butterflies and setting them free. (I can’t forget. I can’t forget.)
 
I used to steal the voice of nightingales just so I could tell you the moon’s secrets. But now the sky is crumbling down. You are long gone and I’m still here, just a girl with eyes containing the sea, just a girl with braided hair and empty hands, too afraid to let go and fly.

There’s a boy with laughter lines around his dark eyes. He gave me an orange blossom once. And I thought I was beautiful, just for a second there. But he never followed me when I left. Silence fell and it got cold again. And I tried to hold on as tightly as I could. But flowers wither and words fade.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

It’s cold tonight. Snowflakes have settled on my hair and the moonlight is pooling in my eyes. I stare emptily at the sky, still clinging on my half-forgotten dreams. I’m stockpiling feathers and secret hopes and all of our guilt. Your black hole eyes are pulling me in, but you are not in love with me. It’s 3:01am and I can’t sleep. I don’t want to be Atlas anymore. I want to soar on starlit skies with helium wings.

The waves of a half-empty ocean (of sorrow) crash against me. Satellites collide and I struggle for a breath – this pain isn’t romantic/poetic. It hurts, it hurts like collapsed dreams and broken bones. There are no pretty words to describe it. It’s like a rapture in the sky, a big black hole pulling me in, while I’m screaming with aching lungs. This pain is ugly. It’s the kind of pain people are afraid/ashamed to talk about. But it hurts so much.

It’s the kind of pain that leaves streaks of sadness, despair and tears on the sky and on us. On our skin, on our hearts. It corrodes us, it eats away on us, it burns us.

……

The sun becomes too bright, burning inside of us – a fire that won’t cease. A million thoughts all at once. Sirens sing; unanchored and unafraid we drift between reality and dreams. Voices scream from the void, but we have wings now. Un-burning wings. Like moths we are drawn to light, we become light and burn white for days. We burn, twirling in chaos, running too fast for miles without stopping, we burn and burn until there is nothing left, but white ashes.

She is one of the beautifully broken girls, the ones with the pretty eyes and soft touch and a howling heart. With star-shards embedded in their bones. And hidden scars underneath black garments.
 
She is a girl with a pale face. Her heart is beating fast. Faster than it should. She flutters her eyelids and tears escape, falling, like rain, upon the dirty streets.
 
Last night she stole the moon and inked it on her skin. Now she’s bleeding silver, from a broken ribcage. Because the boy she loves so much, the ghost-boy with the pretty smile, is miles away, even when standing next to her. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t always speak loudly or because her eyes empty-out completely sometimes.
 
Maybe it’s because, unlike the stories, it’s the doctors who give you the poison and you take it voluntarily and no one can break the spell. No prince nor princess can save her from her curse.
Maybe girls like her are only meant to drift between dreams and don’t really belong here. Maybe they are meant to live as poems. Or maybe, just maybe, they are the ones that make the world more beautiful, more colourful, more dreamful. Just maybe…

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.” – Emily Dickinson

 
There is a girl who cannot sing. Her skin is made of porcelain, yet her bones can’t be broken. Her eyes contain the sea, a grave of dreams – blue and green and grey. Sometimes violet. Like a storm or a late-autumn afternoon.
 
A chronic insomniac, she stares at the sky every night and whispers to the wind.
“Sometimes”, she says “I wish I were the sea. Light falls in it like soft, white feathers: a beautiful, melancholic veil, gossamer and brittle, like memories of happier times.”
 

“You’ll never know / How I feel deep inside / You’ll never know the pain” – You’ll Never Know by Legacy Of Music

The world is too dark now. Too empty. Quiet.
It’s as if the moon drowned in a sorrow-rippling ocean. As if our dreams frayed and scattered across a universe of dust. As if we never met. As if the black holes of our dilated eyes have absorbed everything there was.
 
(My lungs ache – I can’t breathe, can’t breathe)
 
And I can’t pretty up this anymore.
I’ve cradled unfiltered silences and secret hopes for far too long.
& They say I still look too young, yet I have seen so much. So much anger and pain and despair – and I’m so tired.
I have no more tears to shed for the moon.
I can’t fathom the emptiness, the sweltering darkness. Nothing should ever feel so painful. (And who will ever understand…)
I have been lying for so long (I’m fine, I’m fine). Now the stars are exiled from this sky; and yes, I have loved you, but we are not the same anymore. It’s time now to rip out these broken wings that will never reach the sun.
It’s time to let go.

My name is Amelia.
Not Amelia Pond, just Amelia, I’ve never known the Doctor. But I have travelled in different dream dimensions and worlds devised by poets. I have seen skies with different constellations and amethyst moons, but I’ve also seen black holes – complete darkness. Don’t blink. Don’t even dare to blink.

I have felt the pain of a thousand dying stars. And it hurt. So much. I still can’t shake the sadness. How did you get those scars, they ask. And they don’t seem to understand how roses-thorns can make you bleed, how words can scar you forever.

And I might look young, but I’m so old now. I have seen so much. Bled so much, loved so much.
I know pain, but I also know hope (and sometimes hope is all you have).

I have always been one of the delicate-like girls with bones made of moonstone. I’ve been one of the girls who dream and drink too much, who write poetry on them, who try to carve out the pain, the emptiness, the darkness. I have been the girl with the empty eyes and aching lungs. I have been the sunlight, the beauty, the hope. I have written words and code and dreams.

I have always been one of these girls who love loudly and cry silently.

I’m one of the girls who were promised a throne at the Elysian Fields, if only we would let go. If only…
(Yet the wind still whispers: it’s not over yet, it’s not over…)