I love that If I stand on the curb and you stand on the ground and we face each other, our lips are at the perfect height to kiss.

theres something wrong with his hands.

The nurses are shuffling around, adjusting tubes and pillows; turning knobs on the beeping and sighing machines that are keeping him alive. I hardly notice their rhythm anymore, its become as normal to me as a heart-beat. I still tense up whenever I see them touch him. to me he’s not a patient or some guy in a coma. He’s not just somebody.

But my eyes keep returning to his hands. Theres something wrong with them.

I look at his face once more. I will him to open his eyes and look at me. I beg him in my mind to gasp for air and spring to life. I look for the smallest twitch— a single eyelash to flinch. But nothing happens. Nothing ever happens.

His hands.

His hands, Sophie, HIS HANDS.

You want to know why we’re “lazy” ? You want to know why we lack motivation? its because we don’t buy into this distorted system of work until you die. I don’t know about you but I want to live, not wake up every morning to go to some mindless job and make someone else rich and then be expected to be thankful for the opportunity to do so, working jobs I hate so I can buy crap I don’t need. We are the middle children of history with no purpose or place, we have no great war; no great depression. Our great war is a spiritual war, our great depression is our lives… Closed minded people who have the audacity to refer to themselves as adults, talk freely about how AWFUL, LAZY, STUPID and SELFISH my generation is, causes those of us who are in the midst of change to be stifled and silenced because the assumption is that nobody from my generation can POSSIBLY have anything worth while to say. So if you want to sit up on your high horse and cower in the face of change, all while turning up your nose at me because you think I’m not worth your time, then fine. But don’t you dare forget who raised us.

H a n d s

Today I look at my old, wrinkled, shaky hands in disgust how I have chosen to use them in my life.

I agonize over how many times I had shoved someone aside in hurried ambivalence or flipped a stranger off.

For words I wrote intending to hurt someone, or scratching, hitting or punching someone who didn’t deserve it.

I look at the veins protruding out of my thin flesh like cold, icy rivers.

I ponder over how many times I had thrown my hands up in the air in defeat, and how many times they had cradled my head as I cried far into the night.

I look at them now, worn and frail and weak, wondering then how I had used them for good.

How many times had I lifted another person up, or shook someones hand in greeting or gratitude? Finally writing my mother a letter after all this time, or caressing someones cheek with one hand while wiping away a tear with the other?

I reflect on instances of opening a door for someone, or feeling coins jingle in my pocket as I approached a hungry homeless person, and deciding to give them a few dollars instead.

How many hands did I hold in mine, how many times did I use them to touch someone in re-assurance or passion or in simple human kindness?

I look at my wrinkled, shaky hands no more in disgust, but in appreciation. 

And wonder how I might use them to help someone else today.


I’m his favourite extra-curricular activity.

  • my boyfriend was dropping me off at his house after spending time together.
  • him: *staring at me for a little while, takes my hand in his and says* You know, You really are so beautiful and wonderful and perfect for me, and I wish you believed all that.
  • me: I do believe all that.
  • him: You don't think you're really all that beautiful though.
  • me: ... Sure I do.
  • him: you should. Because you are. You really really are. *kisses me*
  • me: *blushing uncontrollably trying not to giggle or swoon*
  • him: *grinning* I better not see any of this on tumblr.
  • me: what do you mean?
  • him: you better not say how you think I'm full of shit for saying you're beautiful!
  • me: riiight. ;)


Its more and more difficult for me to trust someone. I know I’m fucked up. And things with me are irrational and emotional and I’m sure most if the time you must want me to drop dead so you don’t have to deal with me. But honestly I feel like you could have better. And I’m not worth all the trouble I am and all the effort you make. Sacrifices and favours, acts of heroism and shoulders you give me to cry on. I hold on to fog and mists but sometimes I feel like you’re the only solid thing I can cling to. Everything else just evaporates.

Honestly I feel like people tell me I’m pretty because they’re my friends. Like I’m not really that pretty at all but my friends think I am because I’m their friend, or because they want me to feel better.
I don’t feel pretty at all. I truly think that people just lie to me to make me feel better. I don’t know.

Complicated weird feelings

Once me and one of my ex boyfriend and I were making out and things were getting hot and heavy. But all of a sudden I felt this wave of sadness just crash over my body, and I felt like I was going to cry. I kept kissing him, but in between breaths I choked back tears. I realized this isnt what I wanted, and he wasnt want I wanted. And I think thats the moment I knew that things were over with us. at least for me. 

He sensed I was distracted and stopped, asking me what was wrong. I tipped my neck back and whispered: “I want you to hurt me.”

I don’t know why I even said something like that, i didn’t want him to hurt me physically, or maybe I did, i wanted him to get angry with me, I wanted him to push me away and let me go so that I could leave. “Hurt me.” I said again looking into his eyes, hoping he would understand what I meant. hoping he would get it. but he never understood me, and he took it that I wanted him to be more rough while kissing me.

"Oh, she likes it rough!" he said grinning, and I forced a smile, even though my heart had been broken. he dove right back into the kissing, and with every kiss he drove the nail deeper and deeper into my heart. 

and it killed me because he was supposed to be someone who understood and he could never be that for me.


Innumerable and watchful
Silent observers
Rarely considered by the every day man
Patient and omnipotent
Minuscule in the vast expanding sky
Yet present and aware
Waiting, watching, wordless.