Indelible

My tea is cold.

Earliest to rise, latest to sleep.
I don’t bustle about the others:
someone deserves to dream.

—cassia grace (via caramel-highrise)

I’ll whisper darling
and maybe you’ll sigh back with babe,
even just my name will do;
and while it all sounds great in theory
I’m sure the acoustics are much better
in your room.

—Cassia Grace, “Apple Picking”

leaveyouapen:

"Insight Plan"

Sia is telling Sia to “be my friend”
Sia has yet to befriend herself.
She’s poking out the perforated edges of
her eyecare.
She’s been meaning to get an exam;
she hasn’t been seeing things as clearly as she once did.
Her mother told her her eyes were gonna get old.
She thought that meant she’d see everything in black and white.
But there it is.
The grey spilling into her view.

Written by Cassia Grace

 

leaveyouapen:

"Insight Plan"

Sia is telling Sia to “be my friend”

Sia has yet to befriend herself.

She’s poking out the perforated edges of

her eyecare.

She’s been meaning to get an exam;

she hasn’t been seeing things as clearly as she once did.

Her mother told her her eyes were gonna get old.

She thought that meant she’d see everything in black and white.

But there it is.

The grey spilling into her view.

Written by Cassia Grace

 

But, Baby - Written by Cassia Grace

He said, “I’ll shoot!” She said, “I missed you.” He said nothing, he laughed. She said, “I knew you’d come back.” He said nothing.

She said something. He said, “No, that’s not true.” She said, “so you don’t know where my son is?” He said nothing. She said, “He’s very near.” He said, “how you fig‘re that?” She said something. He said, “I don’t believe-” She said, “you don’t believe it’s possible, or you don’t believe me?” He said nothing, shaking his head. She said, “he keeps growing stronger, the more you shake your head, you know.” He said nothing. She said, “I thought you were going to shoot.” He said, “I’m thinkin’ about it.” She said, “who’re you trying to take out?” He said nothing. She said, “Which of us don’t you believe? That’ll help you choose, all right!” He said nothing. She said, “Congratulations!” with her hand on her stomach.

He said, “I’ll shoot..” She said, “don’t miss.” He said, laughing, “I don’t believe you.” She said, “then your choice is made.” He said, “what’s wrong with you?” She said nothing. He said, “where have you been…” She said nothing. He said, “…all this time?” She said, unnecessarily loudly, “when are you going to shoot?” He said nothing, dropping his arms. She said nothing. He said, “why’d you bring me-” She said, quietly, “I wanted you to know.”

He said, “I shot him for you.” She said something. He said, with a gentle hand to her stomach, “I missed y’all!” She said nothing, she laughed. He said, “I knew you’d come back.“ She said nothing.

leaveyouapen:

Somebody once told me that your hands were gonna break me
I wish Somebody didn’t have your big, beautiful eyes.
Because I wrote for you, I became a pen and spilled myself
all over the substrate that was our story
You snatched the middle pages before I could scribble myself onto the sheets.
You erased our future and I gathered the dusty, pink shavings
and tried to arrange them into the picture I’d been cuddling in my head.
You blew them away; I can faintly see their traces.
I was conscious of what you pictured, and I never wrote that plot
into our story.
You broke my pen, and it’s bleeding all over your silence.
Either those brown eyes are too concerned for me to allow me
to keep writing fiction 
or those brown eyes are too concerned for me to watch me be broken.


"Case PH1223", Written by Cassia Grace

leaveyouapen:

Somebody once told me that your hands were gonna break me

I wish Somebody didn’t have your big, beautiful eyes.

Because I wrote for you, I became a pen and spilled myself

all over the substrate that was our story

You snatched the middle pages before I could scribble myself onto the sheets.

You erased our future and I gathered the dusty, pink shavings

and tried to arrange them into the picture I’d been cuddling in my head.

You blew them away; I can faintly see their traces.

I was conscious of what you pictured, and I never wrote that plot

into our story.

You broke my pen, and it’s bleeding all over your silence.

Either those brown eyes are too concerned for me to allow me

to keep writing fiction

or those brown eyes are too concerned for me to watch me be broken.

"Case PH1223", Written by Cassia Grace

(via kittygoesmeoooow)

After like a month of complete writer’s block and heartbreak.

I wrote today. I’m excited!

  • me: *plots out entire novel, mentally writes 500 pages of dialogue, and deeply develops primary and secondary characters whilst driving*
  • me: *opens microsoft word* wait, what?

Writers don’t write from experience, though many are resistant to admit that they don’t. I want to be clear about this. If you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.

Nikki Giovanni (via amandaonwriting)

I think this is what I’ve been trying to say.

(via 2am-poetry)