georgia says you're never coming back
lungs laced with smoke

I fell to the earth the other day – soil staining my kneecaps, and weeds braided into my hair like locks of twined green ribbons - your mouth was on mine before I could stumble to trembling legs that couldn’t seem to hold me up anymore and your eyes were shedding tears that looked like blue ink lacing itself with your skin. I hushed the trails forming on your cheekbones with pale fingertips and shaky wrists, tracing down to your jaw line. “i’m still here, love, i’m still here,” I whispered, words echoing off of the base of your neck – my lips clung to your skin in the places that were painted deep cherry and tasted like wild berries on my tongue, “but you won’t be for long,” you murmured through tears that I still nursed with shaking fingers. I could not tell you otherwise when I knew you were right.


I used to take pictures with my eyes, catching shots of your lashes and the constellation of freckles down your back and the pushing giving abundance of love that spilled out of your veins like fire. You’d take photos of me too but I would only show up in the negatives because ghosts can’t be in pictures (I think it’s easier this way - the negatives were always best) and you don’t deserve what I’ve given you, this half-love, half-life, half-soul because I’m the glass half full of empty and I’m the girl at the house party who walks in with stars in her eyes, the one that drinks too much and vomits on your nice new shoes and i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, but I can’t stop myself from doing this and being this and I’m bleeding apologies but I just can’t give you up.

I went as far as telling you once, “leave, just leave,” but my breath was only strong enough to say it a few times before my mouth found yours and my apologies are were whispered shut by your tongue. I am addicted to the taste of sweet butterscotch that clings to your teeth, and it hushes me like a drug. I taste like alcohol, alcohol and smoldering cigarettes that laces with my lungs, but your stammering breaths are enough to douse the smoke dancing in my airways, and I think maybe I could be addicted to something that helps me breathe. Instead– perhaps if you would leave when I told you, I would be strong enough to not chase after you, with shaky legs and outstretched hands– perhaps, if I dug my fingernails deep enough into the earth, enough to make them bleed, and bit my tongue hard enough to hush push the words hissing through my teeth back down my throat, “come back, come back!” you’d stay away for good.

There are good days where I can kiss you without tasting regret stain my enamel like coffee or wine and I can sing out my words like a songbird without needing to scream out every note. During the bad days, when I dream in vivid and sleep only when the wind blows leaves against my window to ward away the shadows, I can’t be me. Darkness crawls up into my throat and covers me with black and empty and blank and I am a candle smothered at midnight. My jaw aches from all the lies I hold in my teeth and a sharp pain stabs my liver and the songbird is caged in my ribs and I cannot stop the shadows from inhabiting me and taking control.

But sometimes your eyes come into focus in dark silhouettes clinging to the backs of my eyelids and that’s the only time that I see things aren’t always black and white like the Polaroid camera I’ve kept hanging from my neck even after it broke down to colorless photos – but I am broken, too, and you still hold me around your bones and silence the storm raging in my chest that screams, “he could be happier without you,” and you make it seem like maybe you could never be happier without me, that maybe to you the taste that clings to my mouth, of lungs begging to free themselves from wisps of smoke is as addictive as your butterscotch tongue.


I think that you and I are perfect in another universe and if we could split time and reach within the gaps between infinity to that place where I am lovely and you are still you, then I think we’d be okay.

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Collab with the talented skysaredoorwayshome. :] I’m bolded and she’s in plain.

1 year ago | 27 notes
27 notes
tagged as: prose. creative writing. collaboration. collab. spilled ink. skysaredoorwayshome. wildflowerveins.
reblogged from skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated
originally by skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated

  1. ceabourne reblogged this from wildflowerveins


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