What I Write in the Mornings

this is something that came to me at 7:03am while watching Coco Before Chanel and thinking about Nirrimi's writing style. i jotted it down in my cell phone- the nearest thing to write in, enjoy:

I get all the jewels in the world,

every shade of red across my lips

and any silk I desire.

All for a fair sex-trade.

He buys me these things. I adore them.

I feel nothing when he mounts me,

and I'm glad to be as numb as a corpse.

I dwell in acting, so moaning at the right moments

to boast his ego comes naturally.

It's the flushing I can't fake.

Why would my bruised hymen make my blood flow any faster?

1. Wrinkled Pages

skin mellows to the faint smell of soap, and everything becomes silent.
i hear nothing but the ice outside, and habitual buzzing inside my head.
too habitual to be dubbed a noise.


i spend my snow day surrounded by books and work.
and my thoughts, of course.


maybe i should start one last blog?
one where i try to substitute photographs with imagery.
or maybe i can take a daily photo to add unto short messages.


everyday. i must blog everyday.


something, to change the mood.
everything has been looking deep grey lately...
that must change... i must change
into what i presume is a better human being.


why not let others join the ride in this vintage convertible?
i attempted to make a tumblr,
sharing my hopes and dreams to be worn in, and lovely.
but no one cares, and it's a hassle to maintain.


so i shall more-than-likely start another blog.
a blog aspiring to be beautiful.


just like me, aspiring and whatnot.


done.

gorgeous

oozing confidence

candid photos you’re jealous of

irregularly ripped jeans

stud-covered

organic lines

lookin’ fly in skinny jeans and a t-shirt

freckles

over-sized sweaters

dirty knees

painted faces

bruised fingertips

not giving a damn

laughing smiles

necks thrown back

exposing a glistening throat

expression

deep laugh lines

the most simple things make up the most gorgeous creations

Silence Speaks Many Volumes

a mind that believes only loud pride means love

is a narrow mind.

why must you know my interests

in order for them to be legitimate?

why can't i sit

smirking at the beauty of words

glowing with admiration

and desire

and you be unaware?

just because i adore something

and do not boast in loud, harsh words

does not mean, there is no love for it.

i can embrace interest

without you watching my arms

flex around what i adore.

i can love quietly.

i can glow humbly.

-cierra

colored fingers + chalky bones