my piece, my peace

always fear feed the fire.

“Because one doesn’t need a license to drive people away.”

—   ten-word-story, #44 (via acupofkeen)

Shadows

Intuition is often rooted in subconscious awareness—some truth that lies just beyond the threshold of our perception. It’s the pit in your stomach, the lump in your throat, the backspin of your blood. Warning signs. But we’ve been trained to ignore them. So we wear rose-colored glasses and become the micawbers they tell us to be. But take heed in this mirage, the oasis is only sand. The brighter the sunlight, the darker the shadows.

r.b.

“I write because empty pages seem a far crueler fate.”

—   #3 (mypiece-mypeace)

“I dressed while he slept. Trying to cover my bareness with jeans and a cotton t-shirt. Although I knew no fabric could hide the exposure I felt. I was immodestly naked in a way that could never be clothed. I looked at him there, sleeping on my declaration while my dignity lay lifeless on the floor with my bra and underwear—cast off because it was in the way, as most intimate things are. If my heart could speak, I would apologize to it. For the lack of judgment that has splintered it into shards despite the information I knew and chose to ignore. I collected the pieces of myself that lie scattered around the room and packed them away. They don’t belong there in the arms of indecision and ambiguity. And neither do I.”

—   mypiece-mypeace

Pressure

I read somewhere once that you’re not supposed to lie on your left side. It’s bad for your heart. It makes it work harder because you’re putting too much pressure on it or something. But in his bed, it doesn’t matter which side I lie on. It’s always bad for my heart. But still I lie. Mostly to myself.

r.b.

“His hands; soft on her skin, hard on her heart.”

—   #2

Rainstorm

Like lightning, I am
bold but fleeting,
striking with seconds of clarity,
glimpses of light.
Like a rainstorm, I seep
into your bones and
you forget you ever loved
the sun.

r.b.

aestheticintrovert:

You are
much kinder
on these pages
than you ever
were in person.

It is time
for my pen
to stop being
so forgiving.

(via langleav)

“Don’t ask me to choose. I’ll choose me every time.”

—   #1

Maybe

Maybe it’s not about the definition.
Maybe it’s about our morning-afters
just turning into mornings
and the shampoo I keep in
your shower,
or the candid kisses on
my forehead and the way my
fingers curl around your neck.
Or maybe it’s the way you carry
my wallet because you know
that I’ll drop it or the
way you look at me sometimes
and think I don’t notice.
Maybe it’s the fact that
you hold me regardless
of the sweat that sticks
between our skin because
you’d rather feel the heat than
let go of me.

r.b.