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I rode the train back home that day 
I reached home as a whole 
But I swear to you - 
I was ripped to pieces.

That if i stood still long enough 
I’m convinced a stranger would 
trace the cracks in my pores 
with their eyes.

I once heard that the Japanese 
aggrandize the damage 
of broken things
Simply by filling their cracks 
with gold

For, whatever withstands 
more beautiful.

And if this is the case, 
then you were 

Perhaps too beautiful 
for too long, 
far too long,
and i’m sorry

I’m sorry.

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There is something tragic and beautiful about falling in love with a ghost, the unspoken words of experience that lingers in the air, and I was good at it.

I turned moments into poetry.

You can't help loving a poem.—  The embodiment of things that can't be fully explained, like love. Like falling in love.

My first experience of love was meeting in the midnight hours, laying in the cul-de-sac and looking up at the stars. It was notes tucked into trees by the lake. It was being given a book of love poems, with a page marked with the words meant for me. It was giving my journal, myself, in written form to someone else and having it returned with a page that said "I LOVE YOU".

What else is love than having someone accept you for who you really are?

But it wasn't real.

And then like the Santa Ana winds it disappeared seemingly without notice. Because at the time, love, to me, was a fairytale. It was moments made into poetry.

I lived inside the poem and not the moment.

I have honed my craft in building structures out of words.

Surrounded my heart with a structure built on heartbreak, graffitied the walls with every broken promise and lie. Boarded the windows and nailed them shut.

I built a maze of hopes winding underneath but always leading back to the same heartbroken home.

I have been living in a world of yesterday's and tomorrow's possibilities but never the moment.

My heart is aching for a demolition.

-Melanie Hamblin

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written in secret

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all my life I’ve been taught to fear my body — wrap ropes of shame to block the light that emanates from the valley between my breasts, the cavern between my legs. I’ve been taught to fill out hollow spaces: my clavicle, between my fingers, the back of my knees. I’ve learned to vacuum the loneliness from them so when time comes, I’ll be strong enough to fight urges of allowing men to fill these spaces with light and letting me shine bright, brighter than ever. women in my family have taught me to weave shawls of secrecy and now my room is filled with numerous garments that I allow wrapped around me instead of standing bare and unashamed; shoulders back, head held high (alone is what protects you). they’ve raised me in webs and webs of sacredness weaved and bound together by their hushed lessons of suppressing cravings of human touch I’m cocooned so tightly I can feel my lungs shatter as they beg for forgiveness.

and when other girls flash summer skin at beautiful boys with sun kissed shoulders, i’ll wrap my arms around my torso but allow curious hands to tug them away as i whisper prayers and chant mantras of “please don’t hurt me”


on tumblr here!

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"we're all one phone call away from our knees"

impromptu late-night phone calls 
are tender, delicate, and honest

where the smallest of words last the longest 
in a 12:28am daze disclosed with dry lips
heavy eyelids that burn just the same
as the water gets in
after a late night swim
into those eyes — ocean blue, ocean deep...

the night is the kind of dark you shouldn't witness alone
so soon you call and my heart's in my knees (it shakes, it hurts to breathe) 
i whisper into the pillow on the phone,
"don't do it, not tonight, please"

because i would stay up with you
until there were five suns in the sky
until the closet walls crushed the demons 
into atoms too small to amount to anything
until the stars breathed again
until they're all dead

but not you  
not you

it hurts to hear your voice like that

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     "Somehow I knew you would be here," She says to him and sits down on the stool next to him.
    "I'm always here," He replied. Grumpy. "Why would you expect otherwise? You're always telling me I drink too much. Do you really expect me to change for you?"
    "I would never expect anything from you for me," She answers.
    "Goddamn it, why are you always so fucking understanding?" He said suddenly. He took a swig from the glass and the ice jingled as he set it down. "so fucking accepting of shit. You could wrap me around your finger and I would give this up in a moment if you just got angry for one fucking second." He motioned with the drink, the ice chiming against the glass. "If you just got pissed once and told me you wanted me to be better, I'd be better..."
     "Do you want me to do that?" I ask.
     "There you go again. Fuck, I don't know-how the hell should I know?"
     "Well it's not exactly my job, is it? And it's not my job to clean you up, and it's not even my job to wrap you around my finger. You do all that yourself. You know you can't blame for all the shit you're in and you can't blame me for not pulling you out of it. And can you really blame me for being even and letting myself be, especially when it comes to you?"
     "Clearly, since I obviously such a piece of shit."
     "I didn't say that-"
     "I know you didn't," He took another drink, but the liquor is all gone; nothing the the clinking ice remains. "But it's true all the same."
     I pause and look at him struggling with the empty glass. I know he wants to order another. His pride is battling with that heartbreaker that he won't tell me about, who he pours himself over ice until he's sufficiently watered down for. 
     "Why do you still talk to me?" I ask him finally. He poured a piece of ice into his mouth. It crunched violently against his teeth. I cringe.
     "Maybe one day I hope you'll fix me," He answered.
     "Well-like I said-not my job."
     "I know what you said!... Doesn't mean I have to hear it."

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I Hate Myself and Don't Deserve to Cry

Hold me close to your slender body and act like if you would feel that something is wrong. Though my attempts to keep it cool.
See I feel kind of guilty when I want to cry, I feel like I don’t deserve it, until I have that feeling in my throat.
Because I knew it was gonna happen, to feel like rubbish, and even though that, I let it happen, I guess that’s me.
Tell me that is not true, that, knowing me, you believe in me. As I secretly do in the end.

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So Tell me if I'm Spooky

Feelings flipping tonight. Some girl describing who I think I am, and making my heart fall off.
Don’t she know I’m such a loser. Some boy who ruined it many times before, and really saw it coming.
Feels so warm inside, some cutie picturing me for a while, boys know it feels so nice.
Oh if you would find it sappy dear, I’m afraid it would worsen my longing for your lips, maybe you would hope I’m not a sassy brat.
Tell me if I creep you out, like that girl at the bus stop, I didn’t really get it.
Suspicious isn’t a nice trait, but coming from you it would be different, I guess I would kind of like it in a way.

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Dear Mr

Hello, I hope you are well wherever you are. It is 7:16pm as I write this. I have had the longest day. I woke up at 6:00am, had breakfast at 11:30am and lunch at 3:00pm. I read "Post-Mortem" by Patricia Cornwell. I had spaghetti and eggs for lunch. I know the sight of those two on a plate is like a brother and sister trying to make out- it's just not possible, but I had it anyway.

Do you want to know why?

I will tell you why. It is because I could not write!

Yes, I was to sit down and write something sweet. It was to be some sort of sensible attempt, something better than the last one, but all I could think of was you.

Yes, you sent me a text yesterday at 8:43pm. You said you like me a lot and find me interesting and could not fathom why a beautiful and intelligent lady like me is single.

You know something Mr...words are like stones!

You can throw them at someone and they'll hit them right in the face. Once a stone is thrown you can never take it back- that's what words are.

You can also use them to build- to make the strongest foundation ever!

Imagine all those beautiful stones that still stand today.

But you said somethings and left them to me. You said them like some Scientist in a laboratory mixing chemicals and waiting for the mixture to either foam or turn pink.

I can foam but not turn pink- thank Heavens for that! But, listen here Mr, I did not write because all I could think of was this letter. I want you to call me this time.

I want you to meet me and look me in the eyes and tell me all those things you said. You know it is easy to text and type, but not to express our feelings with our voice. I want to hear you say those things because frankly speaking I would believe you if I heard you say them.

Until then,

Do not ever, ever have spaghetti and eggs without me! I have never enjoyed a dish as that!

Take care,


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Why write?

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