Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Archive for the category “Stories”

‘So happy I could die’.

Hurtling through the velvet skyline
this moment stretches, making us infinite.
Lungs too filled with air to cope
to even blink
to even mutter.
Here, I could lay my body.

Green crystal waters and lofty pines;
purple mountains eclipse Continental sun.
We soak our skin until everything floods out.
Letting the water pull us in
just enough.
Here, you and I could lay our bodies.

Glittered words and glowing lights
eyes wide in a fixed bloom
they speak words no one can hear,
dancing alone in a sea of pulsating figures.
Here, we could lay our bodies.

And if it weren’t for outstretched hands
and garlands of long-cherished names;
If I could just sink
without leaving an unexplained grave
I would lay my body here,
Drenched in this golden exuberance.

(image via tumblr)



There was the way that she listened to music: she would throw her head back and grin as if her head rested on every last note; she would exhale almost like every last breath weighed of lead, her head recoiling with each plunge of air. Then there was the was the way that his body became alive. His sides pulsated with every riff, his finger tips plunging deep into each beat. Everything about him began to resemble electricity; everything was sharp; everything was dynamic.

And it seemed like light streaked behind each movement, staining the dark night behind around them. What used to be black was now a phosphorescent blur. Shrouded in a halcyon web of sound and movement, it was if every last syllable hurtled them down that rain-soaked motorway.  She continued to keep her dipped chin tilted, feeling the soak of each chord run freely across her skin, pouring deep around her neck and welling into her back. He kept moving, sporadically, but with a fluid rhythm as track after track became the new theme tune .

Much like the way that you would notice other customers in a candlelit restaurant, they were quite aware of each other’s presence, but were equally far away, enveloped by those waves of symphony. Their eyes were dreaming of a far away place; their ears alive and awake in a wave of electronica. So the music continued to well and flood with each muscle clench, reaching a deafening loudness with each heavy exhale.

(image via weheartit)


Deep in midnight, we set these walls ablaze
We hurled daggers from our mouths
Breathed fire from our lungs
We mercilessly broke each other down until nothing was left
Our silent screams echoed for no one to hear
And we fell deeply, darkly into a restless slumber

But as the light of morning cradled your every edge
We awoke fragilely in a silver embrace
Chains were broken; freedmen were made
Wounds were cleaned; burns were healed
Curves dominated faces
We were free and everything had returned.

(image via tumblr)


And she loved him. She loved him with every closing of those familiar sliding doors, every glide of cigarette smoke, every last chime of wine-stained laughter. And she missed him, waking with that dull ache of reality as morning crept across her body. His smell had long left her room, but his mark was still scorched on her skin, in a place that could never quite heal.

But time had passed and drastic decisions had long been fixed in their ways. He would never love her. His passion began and ended on those cold January days, whilst she carried on burning. She made sure the flame lay low, deep inside where no one would discover the burning ash inside of her lungs. So she filled her days with empty conversations and tried to put people in gaps that just didn’t fit. She tried to forget him, she honestly did. He was tirelessly flawed and tarnished and painful, but he had a grip on her that her fingers just couldn’t undo. He was a masterpiece of broken glass; a summer’s day without any shade. And without knowing, she would always hope for dark eyes in the countless puddles of blue.

She continued burning away, putting away everything they had once shared at the back of her wardrobe. That is where her monsters would live. And she slowly accepted that she would forever be but a snowflake in his great avalanche; an exhale of smoke in his grand ballroom.

(image via tumblr)

Empty bed syndrome.

She lay there awake at night, wishing she was somewhere else. Kisses were her company and hugs were her home. Her blankets were a limp arm and her lungs only worked if the air passed through other lips.

She was trapped in a place where even friends couldn’t fill the void: she no longer craved love. The only thing that kept her bones warm at night was the heat of a naked body pressed against her. She missed him. She still found his outline next to her at night. She pressed herself around his skinny waist and she kissed his nose and curled her eyelashes around his cheeks, only to realise that this was another body. This one wouldn’t hold her tightly in the final moment; this one wouldn’t chase the night away with silent whispers. He may be soft and gentle, but, to her, he was just a familiar shell of a long-missed body.

She realised that she couldn’t sleep with that empty cupboard next to her, because she could never have empty spaces in her life: everything had to have its place; everything had to be filled. And for this reason, she could never be alone. Empty air was constricting; open spaces were suffocating.

So she rolled over, wishing that he could fill that void, wishing that he would come back to bed and fill this ghostly space between them.

(image via tumblr)

Three years.

And there we have it: three whole years of time spent writing on this humble little blog. Three years of naive wishing, desperate prayers, hyperbolic tears and love-struck poems. Over the course of time, this blog has become more than an outlet for my writing, but a reflection of my final teenage years: an insight of all that has changed from the age of sixteen.

I know that every year I have written a thank you to all of you that have somehow managed to stumble upon my site, but, from the bottom of my heart, I could not be more grateful for all of your support. Whether you have been here from my humble beginnings in 2012, or have just recently found brokenstringsandprettythings, I could not thank you enough for the time you have taken to read my little ramblings on life, love, faith, and everything in between. Thank you for the constant support that you all equip me with, and thank you even more for coping with my half-baked and hyperbolic posts. You all truly inspire me.

I would also like to apologise for the significant decrease in posts in the past months. Moving to London for university has been one of the most wondrously crazy moments of my life and I’m so happy that, after all of this time, I am finally living my dream. As a result, I have sometimes found it really difficult to find the time to write, but I am truly working on it! Therefore, thank you again for still visiting and reading my site when content can be so limited.

Finally, I truly want to thank the people who currently surround me, because you never cease to inspire me. You have all made life a dreamy fairytale which I never thought I would actually obtain. Your smiles, and happiness, and unending laughter light up my days like no other. You all keep me writing, through the good times and the bad. You made a very sad and lonely girl become the one whose face never stops beaming. Without you, there would be no words, no passion, and no inspiration. Without you, there would be nothing left to write about.

So, for the third time, here’s to another year filled with the clumsy typings of a young woman who is still trying to make sense of the world. As I pass through my final year of being a teenager, I realise that though little parts of me have changed, I am still the naive girl who is trying to find the bigger and brighter parts of life; the things worth clinging to. I will continue to write about them, and I will continue to be inspired by you, all of you, whether it is via a computer or in the surrounding day. So thank you.

You all make this blog what it is today.

(photo via
 Last year’s thank you:

Crab fishing.

I called your name.

But there was no answer.

Empty corridors, silence down the line, a vacant stare, a message which will never come. I stand and stare out of the window, in the vain hope that your dark eyes will be staring back, twinkling in the mysterious way that I always adored. And I shake my head, not at you or the barren tarmac below, but at me, for the fact that I allowed you another piece of hope. So I pull on the wool of my cardigan, because the frost between us chills my bones too deeply.

And as I sit at my desk, I wonder if my ghost has ever streaked your mind. I wonder if, in between the cigarettes and the music and distasteful jokes, whether you manage to turn your mind to lips pressed onto cheeks; when green eyes grew as wide as her grin. Or back to sudden statements and black stained pillowcases and her body pressed as far as possible into the wall, far away from you as possible.

But I put down my pen and I remember.

I was never that special to you.


And this is true happiness.

Snow stained sparkles and red lipped laughter. Caverns of quilts shaped by a long missed embrace. Familiar scents and unforgotten laughter. Winding roads leading me back to the steps I once trod. The warmth of deep voices cradled by the tender taste of afternoon tea. The deep ginger of worn beards and the prickle of awfully grown moustaches. The jibes of merciless teasing, carving faces into permanent grins. The clattering of clay plates and the comfort of my mother’s food. The richness of wine intoxicating green eyes. The endless chatter of your breathless accent alight by fire in your personality. The sweetness of your soul and the unending hilarity of your sister’s jokes.

Once a place so entrenched in fear has finally become a haven.

The exorcism of my home town.

(image credit

The fall from summer.

I know that you say that you are excited for change, and I know that you say that you are happy the way things are, but I know how easy you find it to hide your feelings until you come undone in the solace of your bedroom.

And I know that you want it to be summer forever, no matter how excited you say you are about moving away. I know that autumn strikes fear into your heart, because you believe autumn means change, and change means distance and a broken heart and missing what is right here in front of you. But darling, please stop living your life in the summer. Stop waiting for sunny days to free yourself and stop waiting for the sunshine to fix your problems.

Because the summertime isn’t real. Although summer makes things appear brighter, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they are better. Because easier is not better. Easier is lazier and laziness is doing nothing; achieving nothing. You were created to do so much more than stagnation and a tradition of a wrongly fitting pattern, no matter how comfortable and beautiful it feels.

In the autumn, things happen: you happen. Contrary to popular belief, autumn is where you blossom and winter is where you flourish. It is in the bleakness when you truly find yourself, and it’s when you cut that tie when you can take your shoes off and run in the grass and scream to your heart’s content. Here, you are too strangled. Here, you are told what fits and what to put in your head and you are deceived into thinking who you should love. Not because you don’t know any better, but because the sunshine is a cunning mistress and makes the deepest wound appear the friendliest face.

Run away into those autumn leaves. Let autumn’s musty breath change you: change everything. Let it settle in your relationships, in your eyes, in your heart, on your windowsill. Let it make nothing appear the same. Then come back. Come back with fearsome tenacity and knowledge and strength in the fact that you no longer need to rely on fading blonde curls and summer dresses to make your day a good one.


Come away with me.

We’ll search every sea and scour the furthest land.

Come away with me.

We’ll watch the moon lift every last drop of light and laugh until dreams heavy our heads.

Come away with me.

We’ll forget the past and our played out passions and we’ll conquer the world again.

Come away with me, please.

So that you will no longer be lost. Come away with me so that you can be you, and I can be me and so that I won’t have lost you. Come away with me so you’ll be here, and not there and safe back in the memories I used to know. Come away with me and be the person I thought you were. Please don’t be a figment or an ideal or a worn-out name. Don’t be silence on the telephone or an uncomfortable smile or hurt-stained pixel.

Come away with me and be you.

Be safe and be home and be everything I wish you could be. Be the open and honest and flawed and wonderful person that you are. Be the person who I confided everything in and be the person who I looked to as my compass. Be my Wednesday afternoons and my night-time confidant. Be the person I believed in more than anything.

Come away with me and escape this all-consuming town.

We can leave behind the mess and the madness and I can still look into your eyes and see my best friend smiling back. You are so much more and so much deeper and so much more lovely than the girl I see before me in this crowded room. You are so much brighter than this faceless crowd.

Be here, because I don’t know where I am now without you.

(image sourced via tumblr)

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