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Unwritten

@blacquebird / blacquebird.tumblr.com

Full time writer living in a part time reality.
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Thirty, Hurting, and Pining

I don’t know if I’m still allowed to cry over you.

It still hurts so badly, but I think the pension for patience that others afforded me for processing has run low, or completely dry. Sometimes when I cry, your Dad asks me “why are you upset?”, and he doesn’t still cry like I do (or like I am right now)… How could he ask me something so ruthless? It makes me wonder: am I the only one who isn’t over you? If that’s true, how did everyone else heal their broken hearts? Please tell me you know, because I am at a perpetual loss for answers as to “why” you had to go then; or reason for me to persist, now.

No pain can compare to a Mother’s grief over the loss of her child, and it seems to have multiplied by the million for every second I have felt like I am truly alone in this.

I turn 30 in one week. I’m averse to this change simply because I feel so far away from you already, and I don’t want to drift even further, completely at the mercy of yet another invisible, unstoppable, merciless force. I got you when I was 29…and I lost you when I was 29…when that changes to 30, I’m afraid it’s going to create more distance between us; or appear to others like I am dwelling on something that happened a sufficient time ago, to be assuaged by now.

I hate living without you. I miss you and there isn’t anything I can do, or anyone I can talk to anymore, about you.

#Grief#30#Miscarriage
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griefxaddict

What happens when the one thing that defines you, the one thing that connects you to any other living beings abandons you, and leaves you to the darkness? When every word is simultaneously meaningless and too heavy to write? Where do you hide when your safe place is compromised?

This is all I’ve got.

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Let me jump so I know I am brave enough to do it, but… tie your will around my waist so I won’t hit the ground

Talk me out of my insanity because I’m not listening to me anymore 

“Please… don’t come any closer, unless you are planning to stay”

I should have said it out loud.

#spilled ink
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Ashes to Ashes, Lust to Lust (fragment)

…So when I said I watched this field burn, I meant that I perched on top of my Mercury, thought to myself “how very fitting,” and fantasized about taking a walk into the flames -- to die among the vines -- entangled with our memories:

a perfect demise for a love story that never truly was now perpetually purged by fire

I romanticized my exit from this realm, reciting “ashes to ashes” fantasizing about returning my dust to dust

and then I let out a maniacal laugh, because the burn didn’t feel friendly

but actually hurt less, than when you brought a tongue full of lust -- with a fistful of matches as backup -- to carve our love’s epitaph;  ruthlessly and sweetly, inside my cheek, and into the book of eternity’s spine

The flame puckered its lips against my skin a flawless inferno that couldn’t be extinguished by even Poseidon

there would be nothing left of my body after this; no love left to give; for we are only loved by the thoughts we leave behind only whispers in a gust of wind

And when someone, someday, finds what’s left of my remains when they rake the leaves and shake the dust off my petrified shadow of perpetual pain

when they read my name, it will stake its claim:

“Here Lies the Girl Who Went Up in Flames”

“Daughter. Sister. Beloved Mistake.”

#spilled ink#twc#love#or the lack thereof#fragments of my mind#spoken word#poems and poetry#memories#memoriam
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Killing oneself is, anyway, a misnomer. We don't kill ourselves. We are simply defeated by the long, hard struggle to stay alive. When somebody dies after a long illness, people are apt to say, with a note of approval, "He fought so hard." And they are inclined to think, about a suicide, that no fight was involved, that somebody simply gave up. This is quite wrong.

 Sally Brampton, Shoot the Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression

#fight
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griefxaddict
Somebody tell me what to say. “I miss you” is not enough to break the silence between us. The ocean is loud and I am so small, and you are so very far away.....
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March 11, 2021

 I want to wake up somewhere I don’t know Somewhere I’ve never been Someplace I didn’t ruin

 I want to hurl the contents of my body out of existence

 I’m feeling the urge to bury myself beneath my self-pity Out of self-preservation

Reminiscing on the sobering reminders of how close to death I really was, covered in my own blood from wounds I continually pried open with crowbars and bad choosing

Slowly swiping through photographic proof of countless bad decisions, remembering the slow burn of love starvation

I’m terrified of my own heartbeat I’m afraid it’s going to keep drumming against my will and make me feel the things I so desperately do not want to

 and that is why we are here, again

 I don’t want to hear how I need to work the steps or a program or whatever platitudes are projected at me from whoever thinks they know better, or who just don’t want to risk getting their hands dirty in my honor

 Besides, I don’t need help or more details on your 12-step infatuation

I need reason

#spilled ink#spilled thoughts#recovery#substance abuse recovery#reason#spoken word poetry
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griefxaddict

No matter how quiet your whisper,

I feel the constant vibration

of your existence in my skin.

Your distant breathing shakes my bones

and I know that I am never alone.

They say time heals wounds,

but maybe we were never broken

to begin with.

Peace was not made

for ghosts like you and me.

We were made

to haunt each other’s dreams.

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griefxaddict
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blacquebird

We are hope, entangled in the webs of each other’s heads

We are constantly berating ourselves, furiously wishing to revive some part of us that is loveable by them

Pleading to exist more than just physically

Reminiscing over dreams that we lost while we slept

Praying for the flame of passion to turn carnate; and us to ashes

>>>

Do your thoughts ever foreshadow themselves before they’re complete?

Like when you get that inkling – right before you lose something – that no matter where you set it down, you’ll never be able to find it again

I feel that way with people

I remember exactly where I put you down, but when I came back, you’d already learned to walk and I didn’t know how to run, or even what direction to go in if I could

I built a compass out of my pride and followed it into the belly of the beast

And even though I gave this beast every bit of my body, it still wanted more

Because addiction is a hunger that is never satisfied

Insatiable

But for you, I would swallow and digest my pride

Despite running out of space for all the things I need to keep inside

>>>

The only constant is you.

And loss.

And me.

#spilled ink#TWC#poetry#giraffevader
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griefxaddict
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mydarlingwhispers

Thank you to the lovely giraffevader for letting me do a spoken word on one of his writings.  He is an outstanding and wonderful poet. My words can’t do him justice, just please go look at his work.

Loneliness feels at home in me. It fills my bones like marrow, and it aches. God it aches. Just remember, there is no forever. Stars burn up and galaxies die. Dimensions fold in on themselves and disappear. I wish I could disappear. My hands only know how to write heartache, my sadness knows no silence. I’m a broken record on repeat, skipping, and missing a missing a beat. Maybe I need a break. Maybe I need to break.

Our love was a graveyard, moonlit and peaceful, filled with ghosts and broken hearts. You were my light, and it’s taking too long to learn to live in the dark. Remember when all you felt was our limbs tangled in knots, pulling tighter? Those knots were too damn tight to undo. And when I’m holding her, all I can think is it was meant to be you.

There is something unholy in the heartbreak. That taste on my tongue. That blood running down my chin. That noise in the distance is just me howling. This is the closest I’ve been to talking to wolves. I have this recurring dream of witches. Two swinging from the hanging tree, and one on a pyre in between. And she says “Hear the song of my crackling flesh. Smell the sulphur as I cook. I burn for my beliefs, but you still burn for her.” And I am burning, too much. But my hands are full of ash, I burn up everything I touch.

There’s a poem inside all of us. Dig it out. It doesn’t matter if you use a pen or a shovel or a blade, or the hands of a man that will only hurt you, and you will grow to hate. Dig out the words of every desperate dream you dare to believe.

Dare to believe.

giraffevader

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I meant every word I wrote

(viagiraffevader)

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