Sta.sh
VOTE FOR ME IT'S SUPER IMPORTANT. :[
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it says Olivia M. Ciotoli above it.
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for the record, i did mean it. I was going to write you one of those long, annoying as fuck gut-spilling messages I always send you, but I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. so I tried drawing you a picture but it was just an ugly bird. so I tried coloring you a picture, but they don’t make brutally honest “I hope you breakup with your girlfriend and your friends stop tying you up and you finally find happiness” coloring books. so I cried for a little, but then I remembered I hate crying and this isn’t about my problems anyway. so I stopped and listened to that same fucking song over and over, the one that reminds me so badly of you but I donfor the record, i did mean it. by ~livyyy
give. there are so many things I want to give to yougive. by ~livyyy
some with reason and some without. some not even mine to give.
I think it started when I saw you upset for the first time. I couldn’t give you comforting words, so I colored our favorite dinosaur, an Ultrasaurus. tall and awkward, just like you. you smiled and that was enough for me.
next was another coloring, a purple catfish. you just pierced your upper lip with angelbites, and we all joked about your resemblance to a catfish. you told me you didn’t have a favorite color, but we both liked purple, so it would do.
it grew beyond papers and crayons soon. I saw things and I just wan
4 minus 2 equals 2 you are my blindfold4 minus 2 equals 2 by ~livyyy
to light and dark.
i see only in blue in your presence.
you are my marionette strings
pulling my tree limbs down to rest.
my skydiver that catches me
just before
the slow soft
impact up
into the clouds,
also you, periwinkle and calm
rinsed with rainwater
down the gutter
where i
found you first.
Conquered youth Everything made so much sense when I was on the outside looking in,Conquered youth by ~loosenyourheart
fourteen years old with my hands to the glass. My eyes were just blue
stones set soft in the milky plane of my skin; lips still charred with the first
brush of rebellion, of doing something just for the pleasure of it. Everything
made so much more sense when nineteen was a distant age; not a slow
wrecked beast that stumbles ever near over slanted months. When I was
reading poetry about sex and cigarettes and thinking, "Someday,"; when
I had never been face down in a public park, gnashing against the cement.
Everything made so much sense when fifteen was what we all
summer ghosts It has started to make sense, why I could never be thesummer ghosts by ~loosenyourheart
plaid-clad kneesocked mattress goddess that you desired,
nor the blonde-plaited sexpot with legs that don't touch. these girls
don't exist anymore than the person i fell in love with, a year or so ago.
I can't explain this to anyone, because there is judgement ladled onto
the tongues of the ones who love me best. You are my closest friend,
even though I do not believe we've ever been just friends. Our past love
mars every conversation, every jealous twitch that scours my mindset
at the mention of a girl you maybe, sort of, had this thing with,
once.
I have started to put the
sticks and stones. broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.sticks and stones. by ~estallidos
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
-
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
Self Portrait at 17 I think I could have done better –Self Portrait at 17 by ~loosenyourheart
this statement, passing over my lips
so many times for so many
different
situations. It's hard for me to write
plain, write stripped, gun to my head
and the only thing I can
think of is the morning sunlight. I
think I could have done better, maybe
by eating a little more when I was thirteen,
maybe by not giving myself
away to any boy who held my hand
and said that I was
wonderful amazing
beautiful and
smart.
But I am seventeen.
Some days it is enough to open my eyes and look
at my body and marvel about just how visceral I really am. My skin,
taut over hips, ribs, and collar bones.
Euphoric 
and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make 
