mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

“I wanna go for walks with you on brisk fall days, the leaves crunching under our feet, our fingers tightly laced together. I want to feel your warmth beside me on cold winter nights and the softness of your touch on warm summer days. I want to make you tea while you study for a test in college and whisper sweet nothings in your ear every night. I want to feel the grass between my toes as I hug you in our yard; I want to feel the cool tile of the floor as we brush our teeth in the morning. I want to sit together, watching the sunset. I want to experience it all with you, Madi. And all that comes our way, the good and the bad, I want to be with you through it all. Having you by my side, I know we can get through anything.”

“I just want to do normal people things with you. I just want to enjoy the little things, like your wet hair after your morning shower or your crunches coming from the kitchen while you eat cereal. I want to hold your hand while you flick through car magazines and kiss your cheek before we go to bed at night. I want it all with you, Owen.”

“As long as I’m around you will never be alone, okay? I will always be here for you, even if I’m not with you at the moment. I’m only ever a text or call away.”

“My love for you is absolutely indescribable.”
“Putting it into words would be impossible for me.”

“I love you.”
“I love you too, You make me so happy. I really wanna cook with you.”

“That sounds so lovely, baby. I’ll get up extra early one day a week to mix up my never-fail homemade pancakes. You can help me make some ganache for them, if you’d like. I’ll be sure to get chocolate and batter all over you, just to hear your adorable giggle. Of course, what’s a pancake without creamy chocolate? I’ll also top it with maple syrup. Just for you. You’re so special to me, making some pancakes for you isn’t anywhere near enough, but it’ll have to do until I find the right words (although this feeling is indescribable). I can’t breathe without you. I can’t live without you. You are my everything… all of your quirks, flaws, everything… I live inside of those things like bees in their hive. You are my entire life, baby. Seriously.”

“I love you no matter what and I always will.”

mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

L I’m ok by myself but you have to agree we make a pretty good team and I don’t want to lose that. I never wanted to lose that, miss that.

M I miss you. Sometimes, I get hopeful, like you’ll come back and rescue our broken friendship, but it’s damaged beyond repair.

We’ve lost it.

L I never wanted to lose you but I’m a ticking time bomb, we both know that.

As my mind counts down faster and faster, my heart skipping seconds as I’m thrown into absolute hysteria.


M Explosion -- scattered hearts, scattered memories

Scattered, shattered, and battered

I can’t remember exactly what happened but all I know is I can’t move -- I can’t think.

L I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe

But you’re telling me to

Breathe, you say, as if it’s the simplest thing in the universe, as if there’s not a ball of clay in my throat, not a haze of panic clouding my mind. You say it as if my life hasn’t become a low quality movie download, where the sound is off a few seconds and the picture is too pixilated.

M The air hitches in my throat and I feel like I’m drowning -- can you tell?

I can see the tears welling in your eyes, a sea against the bluest of skies

I want to tell you it will be okay -- but I’m stuck.

I’m lost in this world of nothing and I can’t find my way back. Please find me.

L My mind is a perpetual lost and found, filled with gloves and stability that no one wants to claim. I can tell you won’t claim me.

I can tell by your stony grip, I can tell by your completely ineffectual commands.

I can tell by the way you won’t even look at me.

Like I’m some kind of embarrassment, some crybaby you’re being forced to look after. A nuisance.

M I’m afraid to look your way, out of fear that you won’t be looking back.

Will you look back?
I feel ashamed, like a child stranded in the aisles of a grocery store.
I can tell you’re angry. I know. I just know.

L&M Friends like us could let this go

But you stopped looking at me as a friend a long time ago.

mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

You, Sir, are beautiful.

I want to write with you. Can I write with you? I want to correct your grammatical errors while we giggle over casual, accidental alliteration.
It’s not hard to be a writer; I can teach you how. How? How! All you must do is put a pen to paper (or pencil, in case you’re not into something that permanent, you have options; I rarely use pen, as my creativity isn’t set in stone) and allow yourself to feel. Even if it’s angry or sad or cliche… write it down. Let it out. Pour your heart and soul into mine.

Let them mix. Let us work like dyes on canvas -- spreading, leaking, filling.
Fill up these pages. Fill up my heart.

Just let loose for one single moment. I promise, it’s the best feeling you will ever experience.
Write some poetry with me. Better yet, make poetry with me. We are our own lines and stanzas, made up of an entirely unique combination of the alphabet.
Rest your broken mind in my arms; I will be its infirmary. I will pluck the little negativities from your poor soul like a child picking weeds from his mother’s garden.

I will heal your wounds and release the caged bird within you, so you can finally…
Breathe, deeply. One, two, three (there you go) write fucking poetry with me. Please.

I love this and you and us together.
We’d make a great piece.


Mar. 27th, 2015 04:32 am
mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

It’s been a week since I’ve last brushed my teeth (do ice peppermint Halls count?) and probably longer since I’ve even checked the handles on my shower.

My hair is in knots (I didn’t think it could get this ratty when it’s so short) and I can’t nervously run my fingers through my bangs anymore.

My chest hurts and I’ve spent so long laid out on my back that I don’t think my little legs can carry me up anymore. My head won’t even support itself anymore; I can sense it wobbling back and forth as I type.
I can stomach soup and crackers but anything else feels too heavy, like it’s blowing my stomach up to proportions even I can’t grasp.

My pajamas are the same ones I wore last Saturday to bed.

I am gross. I am pathetic. I am dirty and a mess of balled up hair and dried up tears and shriveled up dreams.

But, today I was going to call you.

So I got up.

And brushed my teeth, hair, and put on new sweatpants.

I ate breakfast; a feast of cereal and citrus fruits.

And then showered, all the while rebrushing my teeth.

When I finished, I blowdried my hair (the first time in 13 days), the warmth of the dryer making me smile.

I got to curl up in bed with tea and my laptop and enjoy your face. Finally.

This is a once in a lifetime feeling.

This is purity and wholesome love in its finest, rawest state.

I will drink -- no, chug -- it faster than my tea, devour it faster than my nectarine, crave it harder than I crave the feeling of my mattress against the flat of my back.
mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

12.00 - I am tired and lonely and I think you’ve fallen asleep again. All my friends have long gone to bed and I’m scrambling through this darkness for some sense of security before I have another late-night panic attack; before another emotional disaster strikes my feeble mind.

12.05 - It’s been (about) a mere 300 seconds (I’m shocked I can do that math in my head), but I’m still fidgety and crying. I think some would call this “fear of detachment,” or maybe simply “paranoia” with a mix of obsessiveness.

12.10 - I’m still tired, less lonely. My stuffed animals and slow, sad music bring some peace but you are still missing. I want to get lost in your voice again over the late hours, playing dress-up and reading bedtime stories until my tiny almond brown eyes can’t bear the weight of the air anymore.

12.15 - Do you call me babygirl because I behave like one? It all makes sense now. I am a baby. I’m a kitten, too, annoyingly mewling with my squeaky, newborn voice after four seconds without attention.

12.20 - Now that I’ve started counting, I think it’s been three (four?) days since we’ve talked in what you call “face-to-face” and I feel a bit neglected, although simultaneously clingy (you pretend it’s cute, which I’m okay with). For some reason, the anxiety that you may, at some point, not love me anymore hits me. Hard. You are not yet here to cease the storm.

12.25 - I recall that you worked this morning, from a prompt and early 7am (you are very punctual, if I remember correctly) to 3pm. I slept until one and played on Webkinz again until three so I wouldn’t feel like I do now. Isn’t that upsetting?

12.30 - I can’t really tell why I ever thought that boys would be reliable when you need someone to lean on. All of my girlfriends would’ve ran cross-country (in a literal sense) at midnight just to see me if I was ever sad. We are empathetic souls.

12.35 - I refresh my email. I refresh my twitter page. I refresh my messages. I reload our Couple app (and turn my phone off and on, just for good measure). I checked the Skype status to make sure they were correct in saying you’re online (hoverclick, click click, click, on a mobile device, click, sigh, click, Last activity 13 minutes ago). They were.

12.40 - I stayed up until 4am last week on a Sunday and woke up at 5am (to be clear, an hour later) just to make sure we called and I’m starting to wonder how appreciative you are of that.

12.45 - I heard a noise in the kitchen and stopped typing. I hoped it could somehow be you. Just grandma. Cigarette break from sleeping at 12:45am? Okay.

12.50 - I forgot to tell you that I’m reading Lolita. I thought you’d think that’s cute. I won’t tell you until morning, though, because I’ve already sent you two messages in a row (“Are you asleep?” “Goodnight, dear”) and three would be too risky.

12.55 - I need to get someone to stay up with me until I fall asleep and tuck me into bed before I rest my little head like my mom did when I was five. She would sit at my bedside while I cried my demons away and brush her calloused hands against the side of my face. Sometimes she sang me lullabies. You sing to me sometimes. I like that.

1.00 - It’s very late and I’m very sad. I have barely talked to you all day and it is Valentine’s day, you know. I sent out your letter today. I really hope you gave me the right address and not your dad’s by mistake. You tend to do things like that.

1.05 - Speaking of Valentine’s day, I didn’t like your gift to me. No number of orgasms will amount to the feeling of hearing you say I love you or the sight of your mouth curling while I start to doze off. Sex is not love, and love is not sex. I always forget that when it’s most important.

1.10 - Maybe I should do my math homework. Maybe I should do my English homework. Maybe I should start a less embarrassing, revealing piece. Maybe I should go to sleep. I’ll drift into emptiness while I’m sure you’re counting infinite sheep and dreaming of things that have nothing to do with me.

1.15 - I hate puppy love. It leaves me empty and broken during times like these.

1.20 - I’ll make myself some food to keep myself awake because, oh my gosh, what if you wake up? I really can’t miss that, baby.

1.25 - “Read at 1:22 am” is plastered under my messages to you. The lack of new notification bubbles in my app collection is concerning. Are you angry with me?

1.30 - I counted up our messages today. You sent seventeen to me. 47% of which were three words. They seem more empty now.

1.35 - Sleep is clouding my childlike eyes (you really like those, I know) so I think I’ll curl up with Angels by The xx on repeat. Everyone at CWR will be curious as to what came to this work a few weeks from now. I am too.

mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)
  1. When they hit you, strike back.

    1. Strike with full force. Put the fight to a full stop. You’re stronger than they think. Let it be known to all.

  2. When she leaves you, do not become bitter.

    1. It feeds her. You’re better than that. I know the loneliness consumes you. I know the pain of that breakup will devour you for weeks. Don’t show her the success, though. She lives off of others’ pain and suffering.

  3. Know he’s lying when he holds you and says it’ll all be okay.

    1. Life is never going to be ‘okay.’ You’re not okay. It’s okay to not be okay. Let yourself be ‘not okay.’

  4. He won’t call you when he gets back to Port Saint Lucie.

    1. He just won’t. You know he won’t, too. Don’t trick yourself into thinking he cares. You’re the last thing on his mind.

  5. Those kisses aren’t real.

    1. They truly, honestly, are not real. They are not genuine. They are not meaningful or lovely. They’re little pecks of empty, hollow lies. Stop thinking about it. Stop analyzing them. Accept the truth.

  6. Stop objectifying yourself.

    1. That obscene rap music isn’t cool. These television shows don’t depict proper interpersonal relationships. Those boys aren’t complimenting you. Those girls don’t care about your being. Wake up. You’re more than your body.

  7. Self-care is important.

    1. You come first. You’re allowed to treat yourself. Buy more lotion and less makeup. Buy more food and less diet pills. Eat that extra cookie. Sleep that extra hour on Saturday. Skip your third run of the week. You’re worth it. Really.

  8. Boys and girls suck.

    1. Neither is better nor worse. You don’t have a preference for either. It’s not trendy or cool to hate men and it certainly isn’t okay to harm your fellow sisters. Accept that all types of people can be equally bad and leave it.

  9. People are always going to dislike you.

    1. Stop trying to please everyone. The only person you must make happy is yourself. Someone will always hate you for the sake of hating you. Stop setting yourself up for failure.

  10. Get motivated.

    1. I know it feels like you can’t. I know it’s hard to even get out of bed sometimes. I know you want to press snooze on that 5:30 alarm. Don’t. You can do it. I promise. You always have been able to, sometimes you just refuse.
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Nov. 17th, 2014 10:12 pm
mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

I cradled my cup of coffee to my chest as I watched you kiss her.

All I hope is that she gives you the same chills she gave me,

running up and down our spines like favorite poetry.

I hope you grow to understand that she is poetry herself,

and her curves and imperfections should become your favorite lines and stanzas.

I hope she still dips her tongue the same shy, adorable way when she kisses.
I hope she still has her same nervous ticks,

like curling her fingers through her hair.

I hope her heart is still as soft and pure as the day she left.

Because those pieces of her are what make her the most beautiful.

Her broken fingernails she swears are too dirty and split ends she’s been too lazy to cut out are intricate and gorgeously rich.

And that is what you must treasure the most.
Fill her empty soul and mend her broken heart.
Make her whole again,

because I sure didn’t.

Remember that she is art.

To be studied,

To be analyzed,

To be learned,
To be appreciated,
To be adored,
To be loved.


I can only hope you love her more than I did.

5:00 A.M.

NSFW Nov. 17th, 2014 10:09 pm
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Nov. 17th, 2014 09:57 pm
mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

“high romanticism shows you nature in all its harsh

and lovely metamorphoses. flood, fire and quake fling us

back to the primal struggle for survival and reveal our gross

dependency on mammoth, still mysterious forces.”

— camille paglia



you helped me assemble myself

piece by piece,

moment by moment,

every painstaking memory by painstaking memory.

you didn’t just glue my frail, thin self back together, dear,

you rebuilt it from the ground up.

you touched my heart in ways no one has ever even bothered to.

you touched my skin in a way that felt like snow,

gently grazing against someone’s cheek on a cold day.

it was soothing.

it was calm.

you put the storm inside of me to rest;

you were the eye of my hurricane.

initially, life became sepia,

regaining warm brown hues after being stuck in black and white for so long.

then, you transformed me to a technicolor masterpiece,

like a child’s first finger painting.

i know it sounds cliche.

i know that no one can truly touch my soul.

i know i am unequivocally, absolutely,

entirely, alone in this universe.

but our  infinite lonelinesses combined

make for a very beautiful, solemn scene.

life is like a lone, empty hole we fill.

we stuff it to the brim with memories, experiences,

and wondrous love.

you shine similarly to diamonds,

though your outside seems bulletproof,

like a rich mineral being tested in a laboratory,

you refuse to break.

you keep me strong.

you make me feel big in such a small world.

i feel nearly invincible now that you’re beside me.

you didn’t even need a blueprint.

you’re the perfect freehand engineer my heart needed.

i love it.

you gingerly reassembled my body,

similar to the way a sculptor molds his famous statues,

making me feel more like a masterpiece than i ever have.

you helped me realize that i,

i can be lovely, too.

i can be poetic and artistic.

i can be smart and witty.

i can be pretty and admirable.

and i damn sure am worthy of love

and attention

and devotion

and someone who will stay not because they have to,

but because they want to.

because i can be compelling and mysterious.

i can be worthy

i can be.

because of you.

— m.jarnot


Nov. 17th, 2014 09:53 pm
mxmories: pusheen the cat eating ramen (Default)

“how can i be reasonable? to me our love was everything and you were my whole life. it is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.”

william somerset maugham



i want to build a paper statue of myself,

and then tear it all apart.

an embarrassing effigy,

a shameful simulacrum,

a revolting representation of misguided attention and love gone wrong.

first, i will start with my skull,

fragile and bony, harboring all the memories of you…

every single solitary moment that you spent with me,

etching your image further into my frontal lobes, my neurons going ballistic at the thought of your perfect face.

every time you touched me,

softly imprinting my skin with the signature stamp of your fingertips,

like a teacher grading his favorite A-student’s paper.

every time you spoke,

enchanting my eardrums to commit your tone to memory.

every single time that our worlds collided,

sometimes resulting in a glorious revolution,

sometimes resulting in an apocalypse.

i will take it and wrench it open;

i want to leave it void of those memories.

it will be empty of your touches and words and thoughts and actions,

no matter how much my frail, tattered self screams that she still needs them for a rainy day.

my paper head is torn and battered.

next, i will move to my neck and shoulders.

here, i will scratch and scrape them to shreds.

my shoulders will be in shambles and my neck will be nothing but light, white, lined scraps.

this way, they will never recall the feel of your arms around them,

your oversized sweatshirt grazing their skin.

or your full lips,

curling as you smiled against the crook of my neck,

occasionally whispering rushed words and hushed kisses.

following that, i will continue to my arms, now dangling from my marred form.

i will split them in pieces,

destroying each one like an unsatisfied artist defacing his rejected work.

firstly, my cold, pointed hands,

which you gingerly grasped and kissed while i was distraught.

secondly, my tender, bruised forearms,

which you clutched to steady me when i panicked,

now littered with gashes and pale scars.

thirdly (and lastly), my soft upper arm,

which your bony knuckles punched as we jovially teased each other.

i will then move to my chest and stomach,

lying flat against the solemn setting.

i'll break open my chest,

savagely prying out my foolish, naïve heart that fell into your game.

my stomach is next, scarred by your warm touch,

which was like the feel of a space heater against your back on a winter morning.

i will watch the bits and pieces float away as i sense everything rushing back to my mind,

making me scramble to make sense of it.

remember the day we rolled on the dewy grass of the playground, tickling each other,

pretending this could be anything but mistaken?

or the one where we rode your sister’s old scooter down the pavement,

the sidewalk not taking kindly to your adorable stumbling.

finally, tiring of the thought of you,

which, unsurprisingly, managed to bring nothing other than mournful memories and sorrow,

chock-full of “what if’s” and “if only’s,”

i make my way to my legs and feet.

these legs are the same stocky structures that supported me as i leaned against you for photos,

the same chubby chopsticks that placed themselves in your denim lap on those rickety, rusted swings.

these feet are the same stubs that carried me along the path between my house and yours endless times.

i hate them.

they resonate within me as objects that only ever existed with you in mind.

they now amount to nothing but mounds of paper scraps and shredded memories.

m. jarnot


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