personal, thoughts


you give yourself
wearing your heart on your sleeve,
a love that you pick
from your pockets like a thief;

where does it all go?
no love comes back you know, 

you turn empty slowly,
afraid of things, you can’t keep track,
knowing what you give freely
you most certainly will never get back; 

but every single time,
some part of you starts

maybe this time it will work
maybe this time they won’t leave me.


I Tried My Best

If you think that I didn’t try to be the type of girl who would listen to your heartbeat and interpret what you need, you are wrong.

It’s true that I grew up afraid of sharing a bed and whispering I love you’s before going to sleep, but with you I was willing to learn and I was willing to try again and again.

If you think I don’t know love, you are wrong. I grew up with people who loved, differently but intensely, I was loved by the heart and I was loved by the head, and I have loved back, and I love you, I have loved you by all the ways I know how. Continue reading “I Tried My Best”

ramblings, thoughts

Your Stitches (my corpse)

The words I never said choked me,
the thoughts I never shared drowned me.
At the end you found a corpse
of stitched-together flaws
and good intentions,
and stayed around long enough
so I cut myself open and
start pouring,
my rivers trying to tear down
the defences
and the castles
built around your heart.

– Me, I opened up, will you?

poetry, quotes

Letters To My Body: The Heart

“Maybe you’re the size of a fist
because you never learned
how to unclench your fingers.
Maybe you beat so hard
because you can feel
the flutter of my ribs
and you know
if you keep hitting
they’re bound to crack open
Maybe it’s my own damn fault.

There were so many people
who tried so hard to love you
and I held
every one of them

— Ashe Vernon

poetry, quotes

Spare Change

“Promises were a language you spoke better
than anyone else.
You’ve been talking about vulnerability and I’ve
been picking pennies off the sidewalk
for the coin purses between my ribs.
I’m looking forward to the day
when opening my mouth doesn’t feel
like spitting quarters into wishing wells:
a days where my chest doesn’t rattle like my pockets.
Beneath the soft leather of my skin,
I am a symphony of self doubt
and I keep trying, but I can’t seem to empty myself out. Continue reading “Spare Change”