Anonymous by Ēva Devingelien
24 Wednesday Jan 2018
Posted Anonymous/December 2017
in24 Wednesday Jan 2018
Posted Anonymous/December 2017
in24 Wednesday Jan 2018
Posted Anonymous/December 2017
inLost in between conversations and places. Reminded of you in every edge and every corner. Following bits and pieces of the trails you left behind, hoping to be led to a glimpse of you somehow. Anonymously writing letters to you, wishing they’ll magically appear at your door. My lips keep craving your lips day and night, wishing to be touched by yours one more time. I yearn for your existence back to my life. But I need to say goodbye.
24 Monday Jul 2017
Posted July/2017, Uncategorized
inThe first lie he ever told was when he was eight. He stole a felt tip blue pen from the boy sitting next to him in class and he denied his involvement earnestly when their homeroom teacher questioned the entire class, all the while the pen’s cap burned against his calf.
The second lie, albeit not entirely a lie but withheld truth, was when the kids at school proclaimed his mother was a prostitute, and rather than defend or deny this falsehood, he allowed it to manifest and engulf the person they perceived him to be.
He became more adept at telling lies as he grew older, and the thrill he experienced when creating a separate image of himself — by willingly retaining information, by allowing rumors to spread and by never correcting misconceptions, — bordered on the insatiable. He was old enough to know that the less he revealed about himself, the more they reveled in the mysteries surrounding him, and he became dependent on the attention harbored by these lies.
The twenty-seventh lie he told was that he drank his coffee black (no sugar) when meeting Willem for the second time, before a social studies class, to impress him when in fact he did not drink coffee at all. They’d sat at a table in the corner, Willem going through a play script for one of his classes, distracted, to which he was grateful as he took his first sip and nearly spit it out in Willem’s face. The taste was bitter and alien against his tongue, and not a second later, he’d become fidgety and restless, imagining bolts of caffeine violating his cells and pumping his veins with unsolicited energy.
The fifty-second lie ejected his lips without permission, when he’d kissed Willem fervently and Willem kissed him back, their tongues delving in and out of each other’s mouths. He pulled back and told Willem what a bad kisser he was, afraid of kissing him again, afraid of losing him, but all the while his thoughts thrummed, like an incantation: kiss me again, kiss me again, kiss me again, Willem, Willem, Willem. But Willem had smiled and said he didn’t feel “it” either. And that was that.
The seventy-third lie he’d told was to himself, when Jude and Willem invited him to dinner and disclosed that they’d been dating for a number of months, and he’d said he was happy for them but still exaggerated his disbelief. He told himself he was happy for them, he told himself Jude and Willem were meant to be, and he told himself he had stopped being envious of Jude at least a decade ago.
14 Tuesday Feb 2017
Posted December\2016
inTags
creative writing, poem, Poetry, prose, ribs, spilled ink, writer, writing
14 Tuesday Feb 2017
Posted Wine/February 2017
inTags
creative writing, dreams, prose, short story, wine, writer, writing
13 Monday Feb 2017
Posted Uncategorized
inTags
Anyone who comes into my life, searches for me, reaches for me, questioning, like a hopeful kid in the dark: who and when?
But there’s nothing at the other end of the tunnel, because that’s me; nothing.
Back when they really wondered–I must be more interesting that that? surely there’s more?
No really, sorry to disappoint, but that’s about it.
I got no thoughts except the ones in front of me, whatever I hear flows by me immediately, not even touching. I don’t remember when I became aware of my–rather deadly–averageness, I sure thought it was momentary, just a phase. But it dragged on for too long till I couldn’t locate it anymore, till nothing and everything felt familiar, that longing feeling for home had long ago deserted me, like I had no place to stay in and didn’t feel like searching for one. It became who I am entirely, an average person.
It sounds simple, I know, but it’s almost like a contagion, sickness built on each other till you couldn’t tell which started which.
It’s one of the things that’s hard to write about as well, I don’t wanna get overdramatic where I sound like I’m dying, because believe me I’m very much alive. I don’t wanna make it sound normal, because that’s not how I feel.
I know you think you can solve this, you have the ultimate solution, right?
Go on adventures?
Reconnect with old friends? Family?
Make small talk about the weather and what went on the news with strangers?
But it’s hard to do these things when you have no desire, I don’t wanna listen to someone talk about the weather, why? Because we’re both fucking outside, why bother stating the obvious? I don’t wanna hear about somebody’s adventures, or how their mindful family threw them a birthday party last week.
I’m just tired of listening.
My tongue learned to hold itself, but it’s my legs who are too eager to run away from any potential connection to this society. I can’t see the dark, but the dark surely sees me. The swimming pool of simpleness has no bottom, the fear of uselessness. I can’t see anybody no more, everyone wears the same mask. The void in me became as restless as the broken chord of a wind chime. The cheap wine doesn’t fill the emptiness in my bones anymore. I became feather-weighted in the worst way possible, I’m jealous of anyone who can unclench their fists. I let myself sink too deep, I can no longer tell which way is up.
13 Monday Feb 2017
Posted Wine/February 2017
inTags
13 Monday Feb 2017
Posted Wine/February 2017
inTags
09 Sunday Oct 2016
Posted Label\October 2016
inThe Reborn of Sky
I have been asked this question for the hundredth time today, what is your wish for your birthday? And I reply with my usual faint smile because every time it occurs to me that I stopped wishing for something to happen long time ago.
And every time it occurs to me that I have been singing the same hymn, singing the same wish for years:
I wish if my heart was like a clay, I could form it the way I want, no matter how many fingertips there are, I could always get it back to it’s original shape, get rid of the mementos people usually leave there.
Whoever said “The heart wants what the heart wants” doesn’t know how lucky they are, because my heart constantly aches for something that I don’t know.
I wish if I could recycle my feelings, but my feelings are non renewable sources, once I pour them out, consume them, they are gone forever.
I wish I could get rid of my rosy dragon tattoo because it doesn’t depict me, my thorns are not as solid as the ones carved on my skin and I have no fire left inside to fuel my dragon.
I have seen their looks, a mixture of admiration and fear.
I am not these tattoos, I am a hidden art gallery.
I am not these piercings, I have enough ones inside my chest.
I am not my sexuality.
I have been called by many things: Ice mountain, Cold, Sexy, Beast, Unsociable …
People never give themselves the time to realize that being a beast is a classic side effect of a heart breaking story.
I am my morality.
I am the sky, I am everywhere, and no where, always above you, you need to left up your head to see me and only dreamers can reach me.
For you Jane and your precious cat Sky
09 Sunday Oct 2016
Posted Label\October 2016
inThe Controlling L in Label