Broken strings & Pretty things

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

Archive for the tag “2015”

For Dad.

I’m trapped behind the barriers
screaming out your name
but you’re too far down the platform
just please don’t get on that train.

Hazy mornings are the most free
before the day rears his ugly face
before reality hurtles in
I cherish this bland taste.

But then my mind falls to sliding doors
to final words whispered through cracks
to last strokes of blue skin
to twenty past eight.

Some goodbyes can a outstretch a lifetime
like how I could have stayed all night
kissing your cheek, holding your hand
how leaving would have always been too soon.

I wish that you never got on that train
now all I have left of you are tracks.

‘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)

Rhythm.

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)

The last day.

You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you will not only miss the people you love but you will miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you will never be this way ever again.
Azar Nafisi

Fire.

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)

Untitled.

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 http://goo.gl/hrnc9C)
 Last year’s thank you: http://goo.gl/JpWVAz

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.

Ember.

You were the sun beams which cradled my face on those summer days; my oasis in the most barren lands. You were the voice which kept singing whilst all else was silent; the smiling eyes in the sea of unhappy faces. You were the bonfire which burnt in the deepest caves of my heart.

But that’s the thing about life, love, and everything in between. Sometimes the sun goes down, deserts dry up, and voices stop calling. Eyes glaze up. Fires become embers. Sometimes things change, people change, for reasons beyond missing that call on a Wednesday afternoon. Sometimes people outgrow the excuses you make for them. Sometimes the things you wrote about them become stories of two people who don’t exist anymore. Sometimes people have to become memories, no matter how wonderful they may be.

But as much as I tell myself this, I can’t shake this numbness which has crawled inside me. I want to crumble; I want to turn tables and cry until my heart stops bleeding. I want to break so I can finally be put back together. But it just won’t work. I walk around London with a lead chest and glazed eyes, hoping to feel something more than slight confusion and the feeling like I have forgotten something. I want to see your face and curse your name and give you hell for walking away without a decent reason, but I continue to make allowances for you. People say it’s because I’m too nice, or that I forgive too freely, but I feel like it’s because I understand: I understand what it feels like to be confused and lonely and self destructive. I remember what it feels like when life sneers and jeers as you try and get back on your feet.

But I just wish that you stayed. I wish you would have let me pick you up and brush the dirt of your knees and kiss where it hurt, because that’s exactly what you did for me. You stayed through the nights where I was no longer myself, and you cleaned my tear-stained face and held my hand when it was loose. You made me smile when I thought the muscles had emaciated, and you made me love when I thought that I was a lost cause. You laughed at my hopeless cliches and hyperbolic thoughts.

I know that people are different, but I can’t shake the question of why you kept this wall and stopped me from coming through.

I’m sitting here watching the last embers cling for their final breath, because I can’t bear to stamp them out.

(photo credit to Mitch Martinez via mitchmartinez.com)

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