breathe in.

"breathe in. breathe out. do you feel the pull on your lungs? do you feel the ice in your chest? does your heart feel as if it might crack with the weight of feeling and loving and longing and losing and trying and being? do you grow weary of the fragmented shards of glass you are holding in bloody palms? are you tired of feeling broken? 

don't be ashamed. we all are. i am. 

but pain reminds us that we're alive; that we still have something to fight for, that we still have someone to love; that we still have someone who loves us. pain is there to drive us forward; to push us onward, to remind us that we're not lost, that the ache we feel might be the end of something we once loved and the beginning of something we will learn to love. 

pain is difficult to understand, hard to bear, impossible to avoid. but if there was no rain, there would be no rainbows. if the earth never disappeared in darkness, there would be no sunrise. 

and if there was no pain, how would be learn to appreciate beauty? embrace it. learn from it. let it change you, make you stronger, increase your will to fight. everything has a purpose. sometimes we just have to wait a while to see it."

// (via instagram) //

i wrote this yesterday on the spur of a moment, and when the words stopped flowing, i realized how long it had been since i'd sat down and simply wrote whatever came to mind. it's been a while. again. and this time, i'm not making any promises of future posts, or new poetry, or tales of my (extraordinarily ordinary, unexciting) life, but i have missed this place more than i thought possible, and all the people that are connected to it. i've missed the honest words, and the aching poetry and the raw, messy stories that i used to spend hours reading.

i want to get back to it. being here, reading my old poems, cringing at my poorly worded sentences, laughing over my attempts to be "cool"... it reminds me of when things were simpler; when life was straightforward, and people were open and honest and we all knew what we wanted to do, and where we wanted to go and how we were going to get there. at least, we thought we did. but part of the beauty and bittersweet novelty was in that innocence; in those impossible, glorious dreams.

no one ever told me growing up would look like this. no one told me it would hold so many questions in the form of people you've known all your life, or a time that was once looked on with fondness, or a circumstance that is somehow unfamiliar in its sameness.

nothing has changed with me. nothing exciting, or life altering, at least. i'm currently writing a novel, trying to find a part time job, playing music and reading as many good books as i can cram in, and life is ordinary and slow and tiring and beautiful and full of hope and promise. this growing up thing is terrifying, eh? exciting, but terrifying, and i guess i'm muddling through it as best i can.

for now, i guess that's all i can do. // xx


Ohio moments.

"There's a special quality to the loneliness of dusk, a melancholy more brooding even than the night's." -- Ed Gorman 

Yesterday, mum and I left for home (back to Arizona after 3 weeks in Ohio) and oh, how I miss this place already. I was made for long moody evenings and still, heavy days and stars fighting the sunset for occupancy of the sky and I do believe I've left my heart somewhere between hellos and goodbyes, tucked in the corners of musty attics and swelling with the birds' aching lullaby. Split between two realities; between two lives. It is good to be going home, but my heart is in two places at once, and my only regret is that I cannot be.

This was written a good 6 weeks ago, in the heart of summer, and I can't grasp the fact that so much time has passed in between experiencing and remembering (and since I last posted anything here!) I'm determined to get back to this familiar corner with much more frequency, so be looking for more snapshots and / or short stories and poetry here in the weeks to come. xo


eight letters to you : viii

people are oceans, you once told me,
windblown and battered by storm driven winds,
broken hands reaching the distance between shores,
hearts as restless and wild as the waves,
always returning to the place it had once left behind.


a single glance across a crowded room,
and a sniper drew a bead on your heart
and sent flames raging through your chest,
but your next breath was of ice water 
and there you drowned, tied to a memory
that still leaves you breathless.


maybe, just maybe that first glance was
the beginning of a thousand endings
and a million unspoken words,
and maybe now, with your head under the waves
you'll feel like you can finally take your
first deep breath in years.


the words 'maybe' and 'someday' are always
inseparably linked, as if twelve letters
somehow became the entirety of our future,
as if what we are now is erased in the waves
of what we might someday (never) become.


but then, perhaps, the essence of us
is wrapped around those two words,
and maybe someday we'll move past the walls
we've built around ourselves and each other,
and maybe, someday, we'll realize that life
is about loving, rather than longing.


you said that people are oceans,
but even we are not nearly as powerful as we
would have others believe.
driftwood is stamped across our palms,
and we are rising and falling amidst
angry waves that forgot what they were
raging about years ago.


we're in the shallows, but you are (still) drowning,
choking on the saltwater flooding your veins,
gasping for the oxygen just out of your reach,
even though there is a lifeline at your fingertips.
you must understand that we are all broken, but
it is impossible to save someone who wants to drown.


and i will not drown with you.


( may 25th, 10:02 p.m.), mikailah autumn


there's a story in this, edition 3 // fragmented pieces

once, there were pieces of her heart scattered around, fragments left in nooks and crannies, in the branches of towering trees and beneath the pebbles of the riverbed that whispered her to sleep every night since she was three years old.

there were places she had kept secret, places only she knew about, places a thousand people walked through and no had ever seen. and, perhaps, she was only waiting to share a piece of herself with someone who would hold it with the same tender appreciation that she did.

no one came.
and still, she waited.

over the years, a few people followed her wandering footprints, and found the places where she had left herself, until, at last, the fragments were buried far away from the sunlight to protect her heart.

"my stories are my own," she said, "where i keep them is my home, and mine alone," and no one had the heart to tell her that you can't own a patch of sunshine, a thatch of forest or the ripples in the water anymore than you can chain the soul of an ocean or control the wings of a bird in flight, no matter how much you may love it.

patiently, she waited for someone, 15 years passed, and one day, he found her in a patch of sunlight, protected by a wall of trees, surrounded by a thousand crumbling footprints and fading dreams. and with a smile, a wistful glance, a silent plea for him to see, he became a part of her world and she, his.

over time, she showed him the places that held all her memories, and he collected pieces of her from the leafy branches and the pools of flowing water and the tender buds that bloomed two weeks of the year and crumbled for fifty until he glued her heart into one piece and reluctantly accepted it from her fragile grasp.

"you do not have to own things to love them," he told her, cradling the shattered fragments in his hands, "you cannot hold onto things out of fear of losing them. all you can do is love them while they are there for you to love."

but all she said was, "then love me while i am here," and so, he held her heart in his hands until the years began to merge together and he began leaving pieces of himself scattered in the places he had once found her; tied to branches and swallowed in the depths of the whispering waters, until, one day, there were only fragments of him left, clinging to her with lengths of fraying thread and unraveling string, and with a whispered, "i loved you," she left crumbling photographs behind in his hand; in the place where she once left her heart.

{"there's a story in this" is an ongoing project that my darling, incredibly talented friend grace of grace's garden walk and i started a good while ago, taking an image from here and writing a bit of fiction or poetry based on the silent story in its depths. you can read her lovely snippets here (one, two and three) and all my posts written for this project, here. xo}