crimson-lux

[crimson-lux]

jaded at 25

is it possible to be pulled in two directions at once?

one hand outstretched for childlike innocence

one hand outstretched for nurturing motherhood

i wonder if everyone faces this growing up,

or maybe (probably) i just think too much.

[crimson-lux]

25

starting to wonder if there’s a reason why

my only tender stories of love exist between women

and the ones with bitter respite involve men

[crimson-lux]

god, what i would give 

to be able to trace the outline

of your face every night

before telling you i love you, sleep tight

to be able to feel the warmth

of your fingers over mine

[crimson-lux]

i don’t love you because i love you

you’re just a convenience

like a popsicle from the corner store

on an august afternoon

[crimson-lux]

a simple confession

not being allowed to have you makes me want you more

[crimson-lux]

goodbye

people like to write about falling in love, but not many about falling out.

nobody likes to think about the silent unease when they hear “i love you,” 

and certainly nobody likes to think about the pause they take to think whether they’d be lying if they said it back.

then, people don’t like to write about what happens after.

the window shopping - 

     your work husband starts looking sharper by the day.

     your ex (though you slap yourself on the wrist for entertaining this one) suddenly isn’t as toxic as you remember.

     your college fling might still be single, maybe you should ask?

      hell, someone you’ve never even met, you think, could be more interesting than this.

the avoidance -

     you start telling them you’re busy.

     you’re... really not.

     you’d just rather talk to someone else.

the disgust and denial - 

     “what was i thinking?”

     “i must’ve been manic back then.”

     i don’t remember who i was when i met you.

     but that’s not me today.

even your subconscious starts talking - 

     but nobody likes 

     having dreams for a week straight

     about kissing someone else

nobody likes to feel like they’re the villain,

like they’re a sinner praying for forgiveness.

but this is how i fell out of love.

i’m sorry.

[crimson-lux]

musings

it’s not that I miss you in that way,

I think,

it’s been too long for that.

but I keep wondering

even after all these years

if we ever could’ve existed together

but it’s too late

[crimson-lux]

1 Peter 5:10-11

fuck you, stupid bitch

[crimson-lux]

i’ve lost the ability to say that i don’t love you / 11.09.19

i’ve been asking god

if i’ve given myself to you

too quickly

too easily

perhaps i have,

and if i didn’t

we wouldn’t be here

together, yet alone

denial is so sweet

when it lasts

but when it leaves

i’m back where i began

[crimson-lux]

once again / 11.01.19

i know it’s my fault

and nobody else’s

that i’m back here

in this place again

how many more times

will i believe your lies

how many more times

will i believe mine

god help me

i’m so tired

of writing unsent love letters to boys

who pretend to be men

[crimson-lux]

blk

Sweet and mischievous, girl with a grin both wide and sleek, she stands with her arms folded and her left foot jutted towards you. They say that you can tell who someone is interested in by the way they position their body, but you can’t tell what she wants until she does. When she wants you, she wants you. She’ll lick her lips and when she bites down, it’s too late. Your summer sunset, your burst of sinister brilliance. Her soul sings a heavy metal guitar riff and grating metal, but her eyes beckon you to draw closer. She’s a mystery, but one you want to figure out. Not that anyone can. Not that anyone will. She’s not sure who she is either. Behind the facade, she spends her evenings watching the blood run down her chest, asking herself why she exists. What’s the point of living like this? Wild, carefree, risk is her middle name, but was she always like this? When did she decide that this was the kind of person she wanted to be?

What does she want to be?

Two AM is her archnemisis, as is being left alone. She can’t exist without someone to prove her worth. There’s always someone in her bed. There’s always someone to love, someone to hold, someone to intertwine her existence with theirs. She can’t exist without him. She loathes herself for it.

But what can she do? She’ll wake up the next morning with the smile painted on chapsticked lips, and she’ll wait until nightfall to find her next victim.

Deep down, she knows she’s never happy, but at least she’s trying in the only way she knows.

[crimson-lux]

father, i don’t feel so good

my head is pounding

like bricks against a wall

out of words

out of sight

in between my breaths

you lie

all of this is just a delusion

and how long until

the cold floor awaits me

how long until I realize

my naivety

Again and again and again

they say you’re crazy

if you repeat the same thing

over and over and over

and expect a different result

lucky number 7

i wonder if you are

[crimson-lux]

the waiting game

how long have you been here?

sneakily biding your time, inserting yourself into just the right situations — you are no novice to this, it seems. and I should be wary, even if thoughts of you have begun to manifest themselves into something more.

perhaps you sensed my dissatisfaction from a mile away; perhaps it is you who is the shark, not me — the scent of blood wafting in the autumn air.

but this is the hand I’ve been dealt, and you are the dealer, no doubt. I know you’re waiting for me to keep making the moves that play straight into your hands, and you know what? I’ll oblige. I’ll smile my crimson smile, while you rejoice in the glory of having found someone... even if that someone is me. you’ll place your hand down and reveal that sweet 21, just as midnight strikes and you lean in for a kiss. and you’ll snatch the chips from me as your arms wrap around my waist.

I know it all too well, what you’re doing. you know it’s not an offer I can turn up; you knew this was coming; you bided your time and bit your tongue and you were ready to pounce when I was at my most vulnerable. maybe that’s the thing about people like you and me — we do whatever we need to to get what we want, even if it means waiting it out a little. such is the pride of a lion, and the finesse of a lioness.

but ask and ye shall be rewarded, white knight in Patagonia come to my rescue every time. maybe you’ll be the one to walk down the aisle with me. maybe you’ll leave me for her, when she frees up. maybe I’ll find someone else after I am dissatisfied with you. but we won’t know until we figure it out, right?

see you Saturday. be prepared.

[crimson-lux]

vitirol

feed me 

a heaping teaspoon

of bitterness

to add to the twenty milligrams

that i pumped into my veins 

at 2 am

last night when you left me

with my thoughts again

i’m tired of asking what’s wrong

and being asked the same

perhaps i’ll never know 

or maybe it’ll be written 

on my grave

[crimson-lux]

brønshøj kirkegård / 04.12.19

Prompt 68. Random Wikipedia Article: Go to Wikipedia and click on Random Article. Write about whatever the page you get.

Do you remember the last time I saw you smile?

You took me to Sønderjylland to see the tulips.

The three-hour drive in your Fiat (which I always made fun of you for having, because of how utterly tiny it was) was made somewhat bearable by your blown-out speakers blaring the most obnoxious electronic music you could get your hands on. I pretended to hate it. In truth, I was just happy to see your childish grin. You knew this; this was just your way of making me smile.

That is how you’ve always been, min ild. Carefree and wild.

That winter, the rains were especially unforgiving. You crossed through the rustic doorframe of our one-room apartment in downtown Copenhagen drenched more times than I could remember, and the surmounting number of texts alerting me that you had forgotten your umbrella became a frequent occurrence. Sometimes, I wonder if you lied about checking the weather every morning before you left. Perhaps it was just something you told me to assure me that you were going to be okay. In truth, you just wanted to feel the rain on your face as you came home from work — even if it was for a little.

You told me that it made you feel alive.

I stopped scolding you for not bringing your umbrella after that.

I’d never been the fondest of flowers. Beauty, like all good things, is ephemeral — a gift taken away as quickly as it is bestowed. But the stormy winter that year had brought a bloom much more bountiful and resilient than years before. You grabbed my hand and excitedly led me through the rows, like an overexcited dog dragging her owner by her leash. We wound through each row of flowers as you looked on with ravenous glee. I asked you what your favorite ones were. Of course, you said red. Of course.

That is how you always are, min ild. In the moment, yet fleeting.

The tulips faded quietly after that spring.

The days grew longer and the sun blared brighter. I had begun work at a new company. We were going to move into a new house. And without your knowledge, I’d begun sneaking visits to the jewelry store every week before dinner.

And then came the sickness. Your hospital bedside grew occupied with visitors, and I was your watchdog each night. The beats of your vapid music were replaced with the beeps of the machines and the drip of saline solution that cascaded through your veins. For the first time, your hands grew colder than mine. Your soul was fading.

“Bury me somewhere where I can see you,” you whispered. I clasped your hands as they fell to your side.

It is spring again.

Mornings were never your thing, but they are the time of day that gives me the most peace. I take the bus down two stops, turn a corner, and you are there. The park is quiet today; perhaps, because nobody likes waking up early on weekends. You wouldn’t want to, either, if you were still here.

Your tombstone is unassuming. Brønshøj Kirkegård is not a large cemetery by any means, but it is near our home. Willow branches cradle the earth where you lie, swayed gently by the soft winds of a clear April dawn.

I’ve brought you a present today. I lay down a bouquet of red tulips on your grave. They, too, will die; life, after all, is ephemeral.

But min ild, your smile that day — vibrant and unyielding, like the bloom that spring — will live with me until the day I see you again.

[crimson-lux]

Symphony / 04.18.13

You wrap around me, you beautiful symphony, I feel my fingers intertwine with your luscious sound As you soar, scream in pitch, utter an excited wail, And then grumble, rumble and silence. Help, I've fallen in love with your complexities, Your rise and fall, your melodic lines waltzing, Your sudden pangs of forte and shrieks of sforzando. The way you court me, promises of harmony, You lure me in and hold me in your rhapsodic arms, Sway me with your moving rubato, Make my heart thump out a strong staccato, And so, I can only admire you, You beautiful symphony that I can never cease to love.

[crimson-lux]

5/8 / 06.13.12

I love you in five-eighth time Like many would play a song The pulse of my heart irregular An odd thumping of five-eighth. Some may waltz, Affection in three-four, Some others march to the tune Of a harsh, brave alla breve And some others will love As most do In a simplistic four-four. Yet, my heart chose this rhythm An odd one, not used by many In hopes that someday, Together, our hearts Will beat both In five-eighths.