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yourtinseltinkerbellvia http://ift.tt/2ijZkXI:
“
Today it grows in my chest and blooms
Like a rose tree on a ruined wall.
I’ll have you feed me an earthquake with it;
I’ll have it sit in my belly for when the light goes out.
Today I am gripping sideways to keep up with you but
Like always, the sky is too big
And you outrun me every time.
We are thirteen years too young for this.
We are two dreary childhoods
left hungry and pining;
Two weary hands craving for youth,
Two lonely ghosts digging for truth.
In your ocean trench body,
I am the wreckage.
The mess you ached for,
The slipshod dialect in your poetry.
There is a void where your name left me;
Crawled out of my mouth and into the quiet.
Don’t you see these arms parting like the Red Sea?
Isn’t this the welcome you asked for;
The home you’ve left to grow sour
While your anger curled and bellowed
Striking me half-dead and half-able;
Half-soaked still to the bone?
How should I turn from a fire that begs to be lighted?
How should I rest this body that prays to the sun?
All this burning hunger, and no way to dampen it.
All this longing left to fend for itself
And these hands, these sorry hands.
Look how they weep for you.
Look how they shake with the all the world’s regret.
”
- Suraya Kamal, “Apology Song" (via figmentalism)
“
Today it grows in my chest and blooms
Like a rose tree on a ruined wall.
I’ll have you feed me an earthquake with it;
I’ll have it sit in my belly for when the light goes out.
Today I am gripping sideways to keep up with you but
Like always, the sky is too big
And you outrun me every time.
We are thirteen years too young for this.
We are two dreary childhoods
left hungry and pining;
Two weary hands craving for youth,
Two lonely ghosts digging for truth.
In your ocean trench body,
I am the wreckage.
The mess you ached for,
The slipshod dialect in your poetry.
There is a void where your name left me;
Crawled out of my mouth and into the quiet.
Don’t you see these arms parting like the Red Sea?
Isn’t this the welcome you asked for;
The home you’ve left to grow sour
While your anger curled and bellowed
Striking me half-dead and half-able;
Half-soaked still to the bone?
How should I turn from a fire that begs to be lighted?
How should I rest this body that prays to the sun?
All this burning hunger, and no way to dampen it.
All this longing left to fend for itself
And these hands, these sorry hands.
Look how they weep for you.
Look how they shake with the all the world’s regret.
”
- Suraya Kamal, “Apology Song" (via figmentalism)