ᴏɴᴄᴇ-ᴜᴘᴏɴ-ᴀ-ᴍɪᴅsᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ-ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ*
Status:
in love
Joined: September 23, 2013
Last Seen: 4 years
user id: 372180
Joined: September 23, 2013
Last Seen: 4 years
user id: 372180
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Flair
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Flair
I'm a poet from Canada who likes books and cats more than most of those around her.
Enjoy your stay.
Quotes by ᴏɴᴄᴇ-ᴜᴘᴏɴ-ᴀ-ᴍɪᴅsᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ-ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢ*
During the summer, there was a girl. I, however, was not
responsible for anything that happened between us. She was the
one who would talk about wanting to kiss me. She was the one who
asked if I liked her. She was the one who curled into my side
when we watched movies. My relationship with her didn't
last—whether it existed at all could be debated—but
the effect that it has on me endures. Maybe if it had lasted
longer, I would have learnt her confidence.
I could use it. I wish I had the courage to break this social protocol I constructed in my head and ask you to tea for me and whatever you want for you. Or the guts to take your phone and scare it with my selfies. Or maybe the insanity to reach for your hand.
I promise I won't propose anything rash. We don't have to become a promise-ring-wearing, take-on-the-world-because-we-won't-fall duo. I'm not sure I'd want that. But what would be wrong with laying on the grass during the summer and alternating between reading excerpts of e.e.cummings and sharing bad puns? I know damn well that by now you've figured out that I'm secretly a romantic, but I have a suspicion that you are, too.
But the one thing about two shy introverts is that nothing will ever happen if fate doesn't shove them together.
I could use it. I wish I had the courage to break this social protocol I constructed in my head and ask you to tea for me and whatever you want for you. Or the guts to take your phone and scare it with my selfies. Or maybe the insanity to reach for your hand.
I promise I won't propose anything rash. We don't have to become a promise-ring-wearing, take-on-the-world-because-we-won't-fall duo. I'm not sure I'd want that. But what would be wrong with laying on the grass during the summer and alternating between reading excerpts of e.e.cummings and sharing bad puns? I know damn well that by now you've figured out that I'm secretly a romantic, but I have a suspicion that you are, too.
But the one thing about two shy introverts is that nothing will ever happen if fate doesn't shove them together.
You were temporary, and I
knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. I told myself
that when we were done, I wouldn’t let a bad ending ruin
a good thing and that I would be grateful for having you in my
life. I was wrong.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. But you left, and you did it while my back was turned and you did it without even calling a goodbye over your shoulder.
I am a hard one to convince that an affection is true, but you tried, and you tried, and you finally did it. You finally did it.
You did it.
And then you left.
I found out from a subtweet over Twitter. How romantic.
I had promised myself that I was probably a rebound and that it would be okay because you were happy with me and I was happy with you. You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. And I was happy. I don’t know anymore if you were. If you had been, you probably would never have touched the door out.
But you did. And your Tumblr is still as sad as ever and I have my gaze on a guy I won’t pursue who would probably be my own rebound anyway. So I will sit here with just wandering eyes because I refuse to make people believe I’d stay before getting up to leave.
Who’s happy now?
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. I’m not sure if it’s okay anymore. I meant to float down, not be dropped. But I guess it never meant that much to you anyway.
By the way, please stop telling me about your incessant kindness. I don’t believe you.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. You know, at least I can look you in the eye, because you don’t know about how you stomped on my chest. You don’t know, so you slide out of my life, pretending like I don’t notice, and your name means less and less to me each day.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. Your skin is no longer a battery that charges the air around you and your lips are not saints but only lips that manufacture words I don’t really care about anymore.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it is okay.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. But you left, and you did it while my back was turned and you did it without even calling a goodbye over your shoulder.
I am a hard one to convince that an affection is true, but you tried, and you tried, and you finally did it. You finally did it.
You did it.
And then you left.
I found out from a subtweet over Twitter. How romantic.
I had promised myself that I was probably a rebound and that it would be okay because you were happy with me and I was happy with you. You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. And I was happy. I don’t know anymore if you were. If you had been, you probably would never have touched the door out.
But you did. And your Tumblr is still as sad as ever and I have my gaze on a guy I won’t pursue who would probably be my own rebound anyway. So I will sit here with just wandering eyes because I refuse to make people believe I’d stay before getting up to leave.
Who’s happy now?
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. I’m not sure if it’s okay anymore. I meant to float down, not be dropped. But I guess it never meant that much to you anyway.
By the way, please stop telling me about your incessant kindness. I don’t believe you.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. You know, at least I can look you in the eye, because you don’t know about how you stomped on my chest. You don’t know, so you slide out of my life, pretending like I don’t notice, and your name means less and less to me each day.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it was okay. Your skin is no longer a battery that charges the air around you and your lips are not saints but only lips that manufacture words I don’t really care about anymore.
You were temporary, and I knew you would be temporary, and it is okay.
If you love
me,
let me breathe.
let me breathe.
I identify very strongly with Nick Carraway. My life is my own
and the novel is centred around me, but it's not really. I am
the protaganist, but I'm not the hero; instead, I exist to
serve witness to the great, the unfathomable. I am here to follow
the great around, to see it through fresher eyes, here to stay
when Rome falls to ruins. Maybe one day I will tell tales of the
Gatsby that I lived to experience, and maybe nobody will believe
me. Maybe I'll be the only one to believe in my Gatsby. Maybe
I will attend the funeral of the experience alone. Certainly,
though, I feel that I exist just to attend it.
We both make speeches about having no friends, but there's
a difference between us: you are not serious. This difference
makes me uneasy.
You see, though you may have a different house to go to every day, different friends with different arms to encircle you in hugs, we do not all have that same opportunity. This doesn't bother me, though. Usually.
Whenever I manage to slip into your schedule—which means whenever we bump into each other, more accidentally for you than for me—your thumbs tap your phone screen the entire time. I watch them. Taptaptaptaptap. You follow my gaze and explain, "I feel bad when I don't answer everybody right away." I'm not hurt or angry though—text all you would please—I'm only curious. I cannot fathom having so many people that care about me enough to carve time into their day to think of me. My conversations that come without obligation are all furnished by two people. Two. Compared to your hundreds. This doesn't often bother me either.
You have a village around you. I lie on the outskirts, though you like to pretend with me that I'm in the town square. You have never had to be a vagabond, but this is all I've ever known—and if I continued tradition and slipped away into the forest that leads to only God knows where, you would never notice. I suppose this is what bothers me. You are all I have, and you could throw me away like trash, no consequences. What's stopping you?
You see, though you may have a different house to go to every day, different friends with different arms to encircle you in hugs, we do not all have that same opportunity. This doesn't bother me, though. Usually.
Whenever I manage to slip into your schedule—which means whenever we bump into each other, more accidentally for you than for me—your thumbs tap your phone screen the entire time. I watch them. Taptaptaptaptap. You follow my gaze and explain, "I feel bad when I don't answer everybody right away." I'm not hurt or angry though—text all you would please—I'm only curious. I cannot fathom having so many people that care about me enough to carve time into their day to think of me. My conversations that come without obligation are all furnished by two people. Two. Compared to your hundreds. This doesn't often bother me either.
You have a village around you. I lie on the outskirts, though you like to pretend with me that I'm in the town square. You have never had to be a vagabond, but this is all I've ever known—and if I continued tradition and slipped away into the forest that leads to only God knows where, you would never notice. I suppose this is what bothers me. You are all I have, and you could throw me away like trash, no consequences. What's stopping you?
I used to wear my
rosary like a necklace,
but only because it
glowed in the dark.
Stop. Do not insult him. Do not call
him heartless or selfish or deceitful. (We all know he is the
antithesis of that.) You are allowed to be mad—nobody is
saying otherwise—but he blames himself enough that
there's no need for you to as well. Nobody is at fault
anyway, so put your finger down. And I'm
sure you've seen his tears, but I almost wish you had heard
him, stunned in silence with nothing to say but "I know;
I'm sorry," sobbing for an hour—after all you put
him through—about how you are such a good person.
He is not the one who needs to go fxck himself.
I am friends with a giving tree, and he is surrounded by girls
asking for twigs and leaves. He cries at the pain when some of
his bark snaps off, but only on the inside; he dares not complain
to those he loves. He turns to me for help. He hurts, but what
can he do? He loves those who hurt him, and those who hurt him
love him back, even if it's selfish love. I sit under his
shade, though spotty it may be for lack of leaves, to help think
of a solution of any sort, but I can't think of any
consolation save one: I give him a branch of my own.
Even if it means somebody else must curl in the corner of
their bedroom whispering to themselves Why me? Why
this?, there is something comforting in knowing that one
is not alone. Of course, even if it is knowing you are not
alone, there is still distress to be found in that
happiness.
You said, "Hey, I have that, too," and you saw emotion quickly covered by a polite mask. What if you had seen what occured later, held my wrist up to your ear and heard the joy singing in my veins and having found somebody like me? Would you have found comfort knowing that you could have an instant friend who understood an underlying struggle that is omnipresent even though she doesn't even know your name? Would you have found unease in the same thing?
The only things found more than the glee and relief in finding somebody like oneself are perhaps the grief that somebody else has shed the same tears and, even more so, the fear that they may find the jagged border between mask and skin. Sometimes that mask is all one has.
You said, "Hey, I have that, too," and you saw emotion quickly covered by a polite mask. What if you had seen what occured later, held my wrist up to your ear and heard the joy singing in my veins and having found somebody like me? Would you have found comfort knowing that you could have an instant friend who understood an underlying struggle that is omnipresent even though she doesn't even know your name? Would you have found unease in the same thing?
The only things found more than the glee and relief in finding somebody like oneself are perhaps the grief that somebody else has shed the same tears and, even more so, the fear that they may find the jagged border between mask and skin. Sometimes that mask is all one has.
♦
he'll never be that guy: captain of the football team,
straight-a student, making the entire cafeteria laugh at his
punchlines. the popular girls will never make jokes to him about
his six pack or compare the size of their hands, laughing and
mingling their hair as all of it gets twirled between fingers. he
is not a model citizen and my relatives would cringe at his
humour, though he accompany it all by playful grins and kind
eyes. if i were to say his name to my friends, i would be met
with laughter or confused stares, because would i not prefer to
fancy somebody popular? and yes, i'm sure all of the populars
are lovely, and i'm sure relating to quater-back-x-nerdy-girl
stories would be cute, and i'm sure others' approval
would make life easier. but him. never mind his status;
his smile is what makes my dimples come out to see the sun and my
shoulders remember what it's like to not bear their burden,
and sure, i know, he'll never be that guy—but i'd
like him either way.
♦
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