i. ii.
A living tragedy,
an apologetic mess.
19 in the middle of Toronto.

I don’t want to know how you are
for the sake of trivial small talk.
I want to know what keeps you
up at night and what plagues
your head during the day.

I want to know what you are
adamant on storing away in your
closet of fear, and what you have
been brave enough to face.

I want to know who you were as
a child; what you stood for then,
what you grew to stand for now.

I want to know your wildest hopes
and dreams, especially the ones
you’re too terrified to say out loud.

I want to know the essence of you;
every inch of that fascinating mind,
because you have got to be the most
beautiful person I have ever met.

—  Noor Shiraziefascinated.
(via aestheticintrovert)

10 . 1

I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
now but I keep drinking all the ink from my pen, bitter
taste on my tongue, replacing the sickly
sweet words you left in my mouth and the salt
I cried when the letters
stopped coming.

I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
now but I keep shooting up with the ink
from my pen, letting it pool in the veins
that you once touched.
You always told me I had the prettiest blood
so maybe this is all out of spite because I am different
now. I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
and I used to write my letters in cursive and blood
because I thought it was romantic
but I am different

now. I am no longer the paper
for you to write love letters to yourself
upon. I am no longer the brittle bone for you to carve
our initials into. I am no longer the girl who cuts
herself on your broken
pieces on demand. I am not a

girl. I am a fire-storm
with skin and you cannot touch me anymore
and you cannot hurt me anymore because I
have already burnt away the sepia tones and pretenses
you called love. I’ve been meaning to write
for three years now and this is your eviction
notice because you will no longer inhabit
my thoughts or my chest. You will stay

in the pages of the letters you never wrote
me and I will write,
for my
self, a poem.

—  Yen BellesangInkblood
(via aestheticintrovert)

(via aestheticintrovert)

10 . 1

9 . 29 

heldinhishands:

these hands may be rough
from all the work they have to do
to hide my insecurities.
will you learn to hold them?

i may not be as innocent.
i may know too much
about what dirt tastes like.
will you learn to accept my ugly parts?

when you’re lonely
you’ll do anything to make
someone love you. 
but i will only accept someone
who sees who i am
once my mask falls. 

(via aestheticintrovert)

9 . 28

on being considered shy

writingsforwinter:

People tell me that I’m shy. And I immediately want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them hard, say No I’m not shy, I’m just so full of everything and all these feelings are threatening to spill over and out between my ribs. I want to tell them, I’m quiet even…

9 . 28

vendemiaires:

note to self — 1:26 AM

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9 . 28

9 . 24

9 . 24

9 . 23

9 . 23