jazzy | 17 | they/them
how light carries on, even after death. with shortness of breath, you explained the infinite. how rare and beautiful it is to even exist.
two heartbreaks past midnight & we’re
shudder-speeding down the highway,
holding light to our chests & stars
to our eyes. driving with the windows down
& sky kissing us farewell. you, wishing
for city lights on passing cars, framed
against the open mouth of the window,
moonlight tangled in hair. saying ‘my god
the smallness here suffocates me,
don’t you feel the air holding onto your breath?
sometimes i want to rip out my bones
& build a castle, just to be real &
beautiful, you know?’ me nodding &
the nod is a lie. me thinking about beauty
& pinky-promises & other sacred things,
about how the world is in love with you
but you’ve never loved easy. no,
you love whole & unrequited,
things that can’t ever fit in your palms,
wolf teeth & urban streets & things
that would sooner bite than love back.
And just when you thought things were getting easier, you awake from one of those dreams. You know the one. Back in the comfort. It feels like hours have passed in that blissful world, when in actuality you have only been asleep for maybe half an hour. But long enough for you to realize you are so far from over it.
— excerpt from in another world, andromeda is a galaxy | published in UNMYTHOLOGIZE (via inkmagician) —
in another world, i do not wait for you & your hero heart, your restless fingers to unchain me. i etch my own name in the stars, and with every bloodied fingertip i leave the legacy of a girl who was not afraid.
i. five a.m. dreaming out the windows, eyes open and doors unlocked. chopin’s nocturnes on repeat as if i can somehow fill this cavity with moonlight in the form of a song.
ii. tell me, have you ever felt like a thousand pieces of a thousand people all at once?
iii. this is a lullaby, or perhaps an apology to myself. i’ve forgotten what it means to sleep without the flutter of your heartbeat next to mine.
iv. sometimes i feel like a dozen tectonic plates always shifting, never at rest. there’s a chasm between my ribs and i named it after you.
v. friday night dancing under the streetlights, a song in my throat as i build myself up from the ground. still learning how to pick myself out of the shipwreck, still learning to accommodate the fracture lines across my skin.
vi. i am the thousand people i’ve been before, i am the thousand people i have yet to be. i am learning to love every one.