I Hope… (pt 1)

I hope she loves you.

I hope she’s the kind of girl who would fly halfway across the world just to see your eyes. I hope she writes about you, notebooks filled with nothing but words of you, letters in envelopes never sent because she can tell in person. I hope she makes you smile with small midnight texts and the warmest hugs where all you want is to stay in her arms forever, with jokes only you two understand and just thoughts of her. I hope she sings with you, in the car on the way to the grocery store, on the train with all your friends, in the ocean, and in church, and at night when you can’t sleep. I hope she makes you strong, that you show her your vulnerabilities and she turns them into your strengths, that she encourages your dreams and is always there beside you. I hope she sends you pictures when she goes out without you and I hope you spend all night waiting to see her beautiful face. I hope she gives you everything you deserve and never leaves you wondering where you went wrong. I hope you spend your whole life with her.

And I hope you love her too.

“Life is pain. We’re all in pain, all the time.”

“There are other things this universe has to offer, light. Life. Touch. Sensation. The way you are all made of the same pieces, the same fragments of stardust, and yet you are all so different, all so alone.”

“You think being alone is a good thing?”

“There is strength in individuality.”


Little Insecurities

Stretch marks are pretty.

We’re told that all the time, and we see pictures of girls who’s thighs look like jupiter and suddenly we’re convinced they are pretty. Because, they are.

But it’s hard to love your stretch marks.

When they don’t fit the conventional “pretty”.

When you’re a 55 kilo, 5’4″, 17 year old.

When people are surprised they even exist on your body, and they don’t try to hide that fact. ‘Because it’s a compliment! I didn’t think you were big enough to have stretch marks!’ Gee thanks.

When they are vibrant purple and blood red and sometimes even blue. ‘Aren’t stretch marks supposed to be white, like lightening bolts?’

When they cover your thighs. And hips. And bum. And tummy. And boobs. And calves. And people aren’t afraid to point them out to you as though you haven’t spent hours in front of the mirror wishing them away.

When they intertwine themselves with the little, dead straight, white lines scattered across your body that you wish would disappear. And people in turn ask what those are, even though you really don’t want to talk about it. And how can you love your stretch marks when they occupy the same parts of your body as something that you hate and regret so much?

Stretch marks are pretty, on other girls.

Stretch marks are pretty, scattered across the backs of boys.

Stretch marks are pretty, and I am fascinated by their beauty, except on me.

It’s hard to love your stretch marks. But I promise I’m trying.

for the boy i didn’t tell anyone about

i read through everything tonight. looking for some sort of clue, another piece to the puzzle. anything that will help me right now.

and i cried.

long and hard. and i whispered little “i love you”s to my computer screen, wishing you could hear them. and i prayed because what else am i to do?

i smile at you and i talk to you and i laugh with you and i spend half my time at home with my thumb hovering above the “call” button. but i never press it. because i’m filled with doubt. what if you’re busy? what if you don’t want to talk to me? what if i’m being annoying?

i know we live in a world where nothing is certain. but its still unbelievably hard to tell people how i feel. i need some sort of liquid courage for that. and a wiped memory.

because you’re interested in someone better than me. someone i could never be. so i cut myself off, not just from you but from the entire world. i hide in my bed and i drop out of school and i cancel on friends. because even though i know you can not find peace by avoiding life, i’m not finding peace by partaking in life either.

and my face is still hot with tears and everything around me feels cold and sterile without you. all i want is to pull that old sweater from the back of my wardrobe and curl up with it. or talk to someone about you. but you were my secret, because its good to have secrets, right? and mum tells me you fancy me still but how could she really know when she never even met you?

and all this is just because i cant tell you that i’m in love with you. maybe if i told you it would kill that small shred of false hope i have.

if i cant have you, can i at least have my secrets back? please?

a mass of muddled ramblings pulled from my tear soaked mind.


There’s never noise.

The attacks are silent and small.

And I don’t make a sound

For that would worry you,

And we don’t want that, do we?

We twist and we turn

To avoid the confrontation

We know should come.

With blood dripping from our mouths

And vodka pouring

Out of the holes we tore in our chests,

We jab at each other,

Never close enough to do any real damage,

But the small scratches you leave

Accumulate on my body,

And the poison you pour over me

Seeps into my blood stream

Through those tiny lacerations,

And pain me when I try to wash away

The memories we made together.

I watch you prepare your weapons,

I watch you move closer toward me,

I watch you taunt me,

And I do nothing to stop you.

You make it feel like a game,

You cut me off and make me vulnerable,

Then when you’re the only person I can turn to

You take my heart

From the silver platter I deliver it to you on,

And tear into it with your carving knife.

You say you don’t eat meat

And it took me so long to realise,

That is because you don’t need to

After you engorge yourself

On my blood rich emotions.

And I say I stop caring,

That I’m finished with you,

But here I am still writing,

And I only write about the people I love.

What does that say about me?

What does that say about the hold you have?

When you told me to write about you, is this what you meant?

Drunk Texts and a Sad Christmas

17. Orange. The girl who is hurting endlessly.

18. Crimson. The boy who had no clue how to act.

Stumbling in the dark and laughing faces. Hands reaching, intertwining like feelings and emotions.

The best friend who hated her ex, and the one who taught him how to feel.

Too much.

A day by the ocean that felt like Keaton Henson’s voice. Sweet nothings murmured softly and carried away on the sea breeze.

His voice still haunts her.

3 am awakenings to the nightmare sounds of him whispering in her ear. Tears shed to a mutual friend. Drunk texts and a sad Christmas.

What am I to do now I’ve lost the one I wanted to know?

Something I wrote when things were still raw. No hard feelings, promise.