it is okay to be —
to carve out a cell in this world, amongst others,
but just for me
Category: fake poetry
building/breaking
i made a nest of sticks:
it was held together by the dream
thought it was pretty, and
it was; i saw you were beaming
cradled it between my palms —
like i would have had you, maybe —
and crushed it
(what i can build, i can also
break)
becoming, #4
whatever slips by me now,
i let go with grace;
in time, when i have become,
everything that was meant to be
shall return to me
excerpts, #11
what we had was not poetry — it is, because i wrote it so
take care of yourself, my love
everything, #3 (bedside)
his cold jokes, his laughter,
the crinkle of his eyes
his kisses, his soft sighs,
his arms wrapped around mine
morning time, his goodbyes,
the scent of his bedside
everything’s as it should be —
doubtless, utterly divine
excerpts, #9 (quickfire collection)
[2:35am] sweet dreams, sweet dreams, may i hear the ocean before i sleep
[3:14am] i love, i am loved, and i shall devour; i will not wait
[8:50am] we cannot be afraid to be hurt; we must be brave
[10:04am] there’s so much out there, babygirl,
you just don’t know it yet;
breathe, and it’ll all take care of itself
[10:04am] what’s meant for you / will not pass you by
geometry
listening to him breathe
i drew crisscrossing lines in my head —
destiny is a little bit like geometry
but i dreamt of nothing, strangely
he smiled and said serenely
that’s because you’re free from worry!
indeed, now that my mind’s empty
in those spaces, between our figures
there will be room
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / for a new memory
two islands
when i think of love — i think of you and me standing, looking at each other. we are on two islands; there is a chasm between us, a torrid body of water so deep it bleeds into the earth’s core.
i’m dying to reach you: i could jump into the water, and if i’m lucky, i’ll wash ashore on your sands. but i start to wonder: would you do the same for me?
could we meet in the middle?
i return my attention to your eyes; your gaze has softened now. there’s still love in it, i know. but it doesn’t have the edge it did before, that absolute determination to swim or die trying.
you wouldn’t do it for me, would you?
you turn away to another island; i am left looking at you across mine, before i eventually turn too.
somnolence, #2 (falling, falling)
in your arms, as i faded away, i realised i was melting into you
so let us become one, as we were meant to be
you can call me by your name
and i’ll call you by mine
as we go falling, falling together
eden
Don’t waste your time chasing butterflies. Mend your garden, and the butterflies will come.
Mario Quintana, Butterflies (translated from the original, “Borboletas”)
I feel I’ve grown a lot emotionally over the past six months. There might still be things I’m not ready to admit to myself — such as my irrational desire for a perfect partner who will ostensibly complete me — but I am also gradually realising that perhaps, just perhaps — I can be whole on my own after all.
I have embarked on so many projects this year that the younger me could hardly have imagined. Pilates princess, babygirl energy? Clarifying my boundaries, and letting go of people and things not contributing to my growth? Living as my authentic self, unwilling to be stifled by others’ projections?
Isn’t this what I wanted all along? All of this seems unreal.
I’ll keep doing these and more because I want to — not because anyone else has told me to, or because someone or society said it’s good for me. It’s good for me because I decided it is, and so it shall be.
I am tending to my garden; I will keep tending to it, rain or shine. The butterflies will come, not because I called out to them, but only because they find it a beautiful place to be.
They may be fickle; they may not stay.
And that’s okay; in the meantime — as we were meant to — we can play.
baby g’s diary 