#spilled writing

[duskanddaydreams]

Songbirds Serenade

The night I heard my mother cry for the first time

I was only nine.

"Betty Jones, Mama doesn't cry"—

That's what you had told me every night

The night I saw my mother's tainted golden hue skin for the first time

I was only nine.

"Corsets, baby. I ain't born a sexy little thing"—

That's what you had told me every time

The night I saw my mother choking on the smoke for the first time

I was only nine.

"Betty Jones, you gotta cook when you gotta cook"—

That's what you had told me each night

Almost as if singing—

Songbirds serenading.

The night I fell asleep waiting for my father

I was only nine.

"Babygirl, Daddy's gotta work. Who'll feed you otherwise?"—

That's what you had told me every night

The night I asked my father what dreams were

I was only nine.

"A rich husband, that's for you, baby. For your brother, perhaps an ivy league"—

That's what you had told me each night

The night I asked for a birthday present

I was only nine.

You got me a princess doll, looking pretty.

Never matter that the one with the sword remained on the shelf, forgotten—

Like a songbird mocking the serenade.

The night I won a game with my brother for the first time

I was only nine.

"I let you win, Betty. Men always win"—

That's what you had told me every night

The night I saw you all rugged up from a fistfight, battered and bruised— and I had asked you: 'Does it hurt?'

I was only nine.

"I'm not a sissy like you, Betty"—

That's what you had told me every night

The night I drew you a pink flower

I was only nine.

"Flower are for girls. Pink is for Missies. Don't you know that, Betty Jones?"—

That's what you had told me when you rejected my love tokon for the very first time

As if like a songbird—

Crying songs of melancholy.

I was only nine then

Now I'm twenty-nine

And I look for love at all the wrong places—

Like a dying songbird with no one left to serenade.

My husband gets me flowers—but it doesn't make me happy, brother.

I got a rich husband, Daddy— just as you wished. Got children too. But does it matter?

The corsets kill me, Mama. You never said it ain't easy to be a pretty little thing. Why didn't you?

When I finally sleep, Mama

Don't resurrect me like Lazarus—

For my children are better off without me

For I'll teach my daughter and my son too—

The same old things.

That boys ain't crybabies. That girls needn't dream.

I'll serenade them too—

Like choking little songbirds born out of you.

For flowers never bloom on wastelands

And the world is far too bloodthirsty to ever notice the dead ones—

So Mama, please let me sleep.

(This is an original piece. Please do not repost without credit. Thank you.)

✞ 666 ✞

[inkprilled]

We connect with people without words everyday, some hold a door open, you share a smile with someone at the bus stop or  when passing by each other on a walk, we say I don't know you but I see you, here we both are living together on this little rock, living this little life that is all to fleeting but so worth it.

It reminds me of a friend I had in school. Diane moved from Russia when we where 13, she didnt speak much English, and the few Russian speakers at our school where so much younger than her that she barely saw them. I remember seeing her in the corridor outside our first science lesson, she was leant against the dark green tiles lining the walls, her school uniform brand new and her hair dyed auburn. Everyone had already grouped up with their friends, talking and laughing so loudly it created this mass of sound that only kids can make just before a lesson. My science class was rather chaotic and hyper. Diane stood silent away from everyone.

I wasn't known as the most outgoing in our class, if anything most would have described me as shy, but really I just never had much to say. Seeing her there though, I knew I had to say something, I knew none of the other girls would try and bring her into their social fold, so I went up to her.

"Hi, are you new" she looked at me hesitantly as she tried to piece together bits of language in her head "Yes, I'm Diane" 

"I'm April" there was a beat of silence, neither of us knew what to say and I wasn't the best at small talk, so instead I just looked towards the rest of our class and said "they're a little" and I made a large frazzled gesture with my hands, trying to encapsulate the chaos. She looked from me to them and laughed nodding.

After that we'd sit with each other in all our shared lessons, at the beginning I would write her work for her and I know I probably shouldnt have. but when your 13 and your friend is freaking out over homework being due or not having her notes written down you just end up doing it. Eventually we realised she could write her English assignments in Russian then put them into Google translate, and then I'd re-write them  grammatically correct. This wasn't perfect but it's not like she had a language aid or anything so we made do. Our jokes usually consisted of calling each other suka or using our made up gesture - a sideways palm from the centre of our forehead down to the table. It meant get a load of this nonsense, ffs or I'm an idiot, usually used when someone was making a fuss in lesson or when we'd make a silly mistake.

We didn't need words, not when we had laughter and silly little gestures, sometimes I felt closer to her than with friends I'd had for years. I guess what we have now is a language made up of vine and tiktok references, that you could giggle with someone over even when your language didn't translate. And in some ways we're more connected over those trends and references than anything else despite the language barriers. We connect over joy, humour and humanity.

Diane moved back to Russia before we turned 16. I don't know where she is now or how much she remembers of me, but I do treasure our friendship. Wherever you are suka I hope your okay. I miss you.

[manincaffeine]

The masculine urge to grab you by the throat and tell you how pretty you're <33

[omaxy]

I think the purest form of love can only be done when you are young; the moment you become an adult, you have already met with people and almost formed trust issues, and you already know how people can take advantage of you, and you also learn what benefits someone can give; it all becomes a transaction at this age; love is long lost and gone.

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

Beautiful~

Mary Oliver, from "Such Silence" in Blue Horses: Poems

[threewordusername]

d.b.a

[woundsoflove]

You are just the one for me.

[fracturedporcelaindoll]

Beautiful poetic romantic thoughts~

[stayuntilthefoglifts]

Crying is just the way your eyes speak when your mouth can't explain how broken your heart is.

Japanese legend

[m00wd]

Sometimes you need to sleep, sleep a lot. Not to escape, but to rest your soul from your feelings. Because everything, absolutely everything devours you. Completely.

—Brain

[fallencalliope]

Insatiable hunger hits hard,

As you possess my flesh,

Wanting you taste my innocence,

Commit unimaginable sins behind these closed doors,

Enclosed in this sweet ecstasy,

Succumbing to your every need,

Getting high from the addiction,

Of feeling your every desire,

Taking me to the brink of coming undone under your touch...

©️fallencalliope

[hnychn]

this is so satosugu coded and no i will not be elaborating <3

I grieve the little things I did not get to say to you and the things I never will.

[destinedjourneyofwords]

I'll plant tender kisses of words to bloom in your heart in every poem I write for you,my love

[robertjw4688]

I want to stumble

down the rabbit hole

of her heart.

I want to

share a glass

of electric wine

with her

as we watch the sky

shift in emotion.

I would

rip civilizations

from time

and place them

at her boots

so she never gets bored.

She deserves

an easy ride

from here

to euphoria.

Robert J. W.

[humanconditionpoetry]

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