jedl93

I saw you today,   (on your tumbler,    on your Facebook,    on your wall) but    (I didn't reblog    I didn't hit "like") I didn't say "hi" because I'm unable to reach out   (to click,    to type) because I believe,    (you want what you reblog     you want what you "like"     You're ashamed of me, on your wall) that I'm not worthy.

My boyfriend watched, open mouthed as I unscrewed the lid of your urn, and ran my fingers through your ashes. Your depression, your soul dust. I felt an ocean rolling under my ribs and an urge to cradle your urn, rock you back and forth like you did for me when I was young. - At the funeral, my uncle announced that you hated religion. But he left out the part where you did believe in a God, just that he was always punishing you. - “There was nothing you could have done” said the other uncle. I think of all those spent wishes, the birthday candles extinguished for gifts, the meteor showers I wasted on love, the prayers offered from

He fell in love with her handwriting – the way her dribbled g’s gallivanted into corkscrews – the way her s’s would caress the ends of the letters, lapping at the plurals and ever so softly conveying graphite sibilance – the way her a’s had jaunty tails held high, the apexes of lowercase – the way her commas would pause and the pencil point would press ever so slightly into the filaments – the way her cursive flowed like a landscape (and they say that pictures are worth more than the masterstrokes on her looseleaf) – the way her hand had crinkled the paper as she scribbled a note on

They use zip ties now, the cops. This is different from the last time I was cuffed. I was expecting the cold metal bite of a cuff always a little too tight. These were worse, tighter, and the thin plastic pinched and felt like ligature wire against the bone. They read me my rights, too. The woman cop, a head shorter than me with dull hair pulling the skin of her face tight against her skull. Her eyes looked dead, sunken. Shadowed by the shiny brim of her smart little hat. She gripped my arm like I was trying to get away. My flight was over, if it had ever begun. What did I have to run from? “Get in the car, Ma’am,” she sa

Cry mercy, and remember (though locked with a key) In this place called memory. Where truth is bounty, thou can'st not run Yet it be born unto misery. The dove flies with the raven Dark with light; Together, they shant exist... As the wind in the hand face answereth to water, And the sands spill forth of the fist. If life be like unto love without thee Than rather, I'd die this day; My only true love, for whom I am born; Through wrong choice my heart knows the grave. As a firery arrow pierced to the heart By this, my love awakened To witness the cruelty engulfed in his soul By essence, we are forsaken... Be thou forever therefore, v

I know this fire. This deep brittle burning. These ashes know my name. We are familiar. I know how you feel. This hurt; this raw pain. This sick, twisting, contortion of your heart. To be told there's nothing to worry about. When it's a lie to your face. Trust me, I know. When in a moment, six years burns away into nothing. Words. Words. Words... are all that's left. In memory. In writing. Etched into your skin. Clawed into your brain now. A haunting whisper that never goes away. I know this feeling. And though it never fully heals... I am here for you.

Strike the soft skin of your children; leave marks.    Go on: show them how hard they must become       to be like you. Mold them to be mindless: coach them to react    with fists; make them believe that words have       little worth. Shape them into an almighty monster: modern man. Destroy their purity and imagination by damning them    with absurd words of a god who previous men       imagined. Teach children to follow a leader, and to not ever    break the ci

When one is with friends and is asked, “Do you know any stories?” one usually has a particular tale prepared for such an occasion. This tale can act as an icebreaker, lead to good conversation, or simply garner a satisfied “Can you believe it?” reaction. This is one of those stories: *** Paul Edwards, a man nearing his fortieth year, was still a bachelor. He was a barrister, and quite brilliant at his job. Flawless, even. In his entire career, he had not lost a single case. Impressive, no? Unfortunately, his unblemished record was to be tainted on the twenty-second of September, ninety-seven. Paul did not appear at t