The bruises don’t lie

Didnt Youknow black and blue is the thing

Angry red scratches are in and white marred skin is a trend

Hot lashes and adrenaline filled hearts are what everyone wants but when you have it it’s over

Flash. Pain. Flash. Anger. Flash. The morning regret.

The hurt is numbed by fresh wounds and the memories are burnt;over ruled by charcoaled skin. Didn’t you know black and blue was the new thing?



Happy Birthday To You

Friday 9th November

Happy birthday. Happy month and one year. I loved you. Thanks for being the best partner in crime I could’ve asked for. Thanks for your stupid humour and laughter. I wish I could spend more time with you.

Thank you for not breaking my heart like they all said you would, thank you for moving on.

I wonder if you miss me too? I wonder if you crave the intimacy in the same way I do, I guess not. You have someone else now. Isn’t that funny, wasn’t I meant to be the one to teach you love? They said you’d finally found someone. We parted with a hug, I never saw you again.

Today, my heart hurts, everything feels slow and sad, dipped in greyscale. Rain smacks against the window and the bleak sky rolls. My fingers itch to send you a message. I can’t. My day moves in slow motion, day crawling into night, darkness seeping through the sky.

Today, I say thank you for your crap singing; thank you for the stupid love bites; thank you for holding me as we slept; thank you for being there.

Happy birthday to you…

Cupid’s Chokehold

Softer than I expected, gentle yet fierce. Carefree and careful yet rushed and dizzying. And it’s left me confused.

I swear this is meant to be the other way round, one broken, the other whole. But now I’m a mess, Cupid’s got me in his chokehold. Except no, not love, just disorientating lust. Crackling electricity and stupid eyes, yet warm and familiar and not meant for me. And ouch, that hurts- a drunken mistake? Put it that way and it seems so careless. detached. and that’s not entirely the truth. Happiness Is the aim of the game, it’s what they all say. Odd because happy and me don’t tend to correlate yet seeing you happy is not something I hate.

Well pass me the shots, I’m up for a game. What’s on the line? My heart and my pain. So give me some vodka, cider or gin and watch me not hesitate to do it again.

Ten o’clock thoughts

Don’t feel bad for the suicidal cat, gotta kill themselves 9 times before they get it right-

Everything hurts. My legs, my wrists, my heart. Each breath is a hazy struggle and tears just keep coming. Your shouts are so loud, your dislike so strong. I don’t know if I can keep doing this. I try so hard to fight it all and it always comes crashing back down. Relapse, relapse, relapse again. I feel so guilty, so tired. I always find myself reverting back to this phrase – “I want to go home”. Yet I’m here lying in my bed, with a family and friends and food and everything I need. Yet no where feels like home, I feel off beat, out of rhythm. A bent out puzzle piece. I want to go home so badly but I don’t know where home is and it’s ripping me to shreds. I feel so dumb for this, I have everything, yet nothing at all. I feel empty and sad and angry and so disappointed in myself. Everything goes wrong. I’m a failure. Couldn’t even keep my parents happy. Can’t only love guys. Take pills to make the pain go away. The list keeps on going.

On and on, forever. I hope everyone can find happiness. I’m sure they can, I think almost everyone deserves it. If you’re struggling, you should know that you can find love and joy and laughter again. It’s out their, waiting for you. Don’t give up now, please.

Stay strong, stay alive.

All my love- Hope x


Emerald and brown. Her type. All gorgeous curves. His type.

Well it’s nice to meet you. We’ve hit it off well. Actually, no, it’s awkward for sure. Brief yet sweet. Nope, jealously fueled, unnoticeable. Don’t have the right to be jealous in this one, double standards. « Hypocrite ». And yet here we are.

Still awkward, less strained. More people, better. Always better with more people. Except when the panic sets in. Get out of there. Definitely awkward.

Intoxicated, gone. Don’t neck vodka. Yet no longer awkward, side eyes and heated compliments and not so subtle checking out. The feeling of soft lips, tongue on tongue. Sure, yet unexpected. Undeniably hot. Hair being pulled and fuzzy memories…

A tiny seed planted in the mind, growing, sprouting. A thriving forest, burning desire of unshared thoughts, jokes that no longer seem like jokes and unrelenting neediness.

Some thoughts should probably just stay secret. Right?

Sunlit curls and ocean storms.

Well, that could be their type.


(Bonus points if you can guess the theme)


“They say the captain goes down with the ship”

Red port, out of the bottle. Painted lips, stained with the glistening crimson of intoxication. Glassy eyes, unshead tears. He’s calling you my name now- I guess. I knew that already but fuck it hurts; I don’t know why, but it hurts. I think it’s the loneliness speaking. See, here’s the thing, I don’t let anyone get close these days. Bottle it up, right? I tell you that I speak to someone but I don’t. I never do.

Drinking alone in your room. Real classy… a promise. Fucking promises, I’ve never been good with them but I make you take one. Keep your friends safe, my brain shouts, screams. My thoughts are turning again, burning with illness and pain. I always have been a drama queen, ironically even in my writing. Bad vision, blurry fairy lights. A swimming view.

I’m sinking.

Worried parents, worried friends. I’m good at this whole self destruction thing. I think about that too much, overdosing is easy. Creating visible pain, it’s always easier than showing the psychological scars. God, I’m so fucked. I’m going insane. So, so alone in my insanity. So alone.

(Disclaimer, I am very dramatic in these posts. This is written about several perspectives and relationships including Romantic, platonic and parental)


Aching. I’m aching in my soul. My heart is still beating and I’m still breathing but the world is at a stand still. The mirror reflects someone whose built their whole life on the lies they were told, destined to fizzle out like a dying ember on a match. My existence is balanced on a fine tune of crumbling cards, as each one topples another light blinks out. Time is fading in and out and seconds become minutes become hours. I blink. Each tick of the clock a countdown to the fall, like flying but with a more permanent destination. Every breath I want to be my last, every thump of my heart, I want to hear no more. Every tear I want to be the life draining out of me. Each movement is calculated and mechanical, yet disorientated and detached. Each breath is forced because I’m a prisoner in my mind and my body is the cage, I want to escape. The ticking of the clock is so loud, so very loud, the ticking away of my life. Each joint pounds as nail scrape at my raw skin, choking on my breaths now. A violent throb of pain thinks against my skull. My life built on a clumsy foundations of lies.

Aching. I’m aching but I don’t want to ache anymore. Instead I want to go away.