agirlcalledfrost said: So I absolutely love your "hands of a roofer" poem, and I was wondering if it be okay/if you would be totally weirded out if I recited it in a voice post? I totally understand if you are - it's yours and it's personal - but I just wanted to ask.
Not at all! Have fun and thanks for asking!
I have emotions
that are like newspapers that
I go for days at a time
trapped in the want ads.
I feel as if I am an ad
for the sale of a haunted house:
ghosts and all
richard brautigan, revenge of the lawn
this is my favorite book ever, honestly.
It’s always so close to 3am and I am always so close to writing about you.
sharp knife - third eye blind
With hands like a roofer, I shingle your childhood home with all the memories of us. Each piece is a projector, shimmering with home movies in the night. There’s me, rubbing your back, whispering all my faults into your ears and filling your head with nonsense. And there’s you, putting together our bed frame in our first apartment, tripping over the screws and asking me which bolts go where. I remember that like it was yesterday.
I watch the reflection in your eyes, of the multimedia love we had once. Of the boat rides in the Long Island Sound, and the carnivals at Bar Harbor beach park, and the snowstorm we drove through from Massachusetts two days after Christmas. I don’t know what happened to those people.
I woke up to the sounds of our son scraping his nails along his mattress this morning. It reminded me of how placid I once was, how our bedroom had been a haven for sleep and sex and adventure. For college papers and cats scratching at the carpeted floors and late night boozing. I miss our apartment so much, it hurts. There’s a hole in my heart.
Although I don’t write much anymore, I am constantly musing. There are a million words floating around in my head. A million ways to tell you it’s over and that I wish it never was.
End of summer.
Lately, Tumblr feels less like a community and more like a personal narrative. I spend a lot of time browsing, not enough time writing, and even less time communicating with who I follow and those who follow me.
I encrypt a lot of pain into my writing, and sometimes I find myself talking to to my own reflection rather than the reader. My photographs are also an extension of me, as I truly do love photography and the stories photographs have the capability of telling. Sometimes it’s easier to post an image in order to portray my current state of mind instead of struggling with the right words. Ironically enough, it is almost impossible for me to say how I’m feeling without some kind of sorted metaphor. In reality, I am the same way.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m absurdly lonely 99% of the time. It seems ridiculous since I am constantly surrounded by people who care about me, and who I care a great deal about, as well. But I am very disconnected; my heart is easily broken, so I shelter myself from accessing that fragile side of me. It took years to numb myself, and I very seldom stray from that numbness.
Let’s tell stories together. Let’s crack our shells and let the yolk of our insides run down each other’s hands. I’m aching for it.