The clouds wrap the sky
A tight, thick blanket
I look to them
as if I only had a chair tall enough
I could stand and feel their threads.
Discover the weave that laces my world
And it’s with intimacy I think.
I’ll live and grow old on this patch of grass
Tracing the same patterns in the dirt
A left turn always follows a right.
But it’s on those days the sky is clear
My pattern breaks
I run and hide among the blades
Trembling at the sight.
And pray that endless emptiness
Is not what awaits me when I die.
Sayaka Maruyama | on Tumblr (b.1983, Japan/Netherlands) - Sakura (2012)
Sayaka Maruyama was born in Japan and moved to Holland with her family at age of 12. That 3-year-stay in different culture influenced her in many ways especially in terms of art education. Her practice traverses the mediums of photography, film, drawings, installation and performance. Drawing on classical Japanese references and Surrealist motifs, her work explores contradictory contemporary understandings of Japanese notions of beauty, from both Western and Eastern perspectives. Maruyama has exhibited widely in London and Tokyo, and her images have been published in several renowned periodicals. Please visit artist’s website or follow her Tumblr for more work.
[more Sayaka Maruyama | artists found at ruineshumaines]
(via anything-artsy)
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(via anything-artsy)
How I feel about BMI:
I have way to much metaphysical angst than to worry if the ratio of one type of cell inside the ball of cells I call myself is average compared to other balls of cells about the same vertical size of my own.
There is a delicacy in a cherry blossom
Which is reflected in the skin beneath your lover’s eyes.
Time will droop their pale pink,
And beneath bare branches beauty turns transparent
You’ll spend the years memorizing each winding vein,
Plotting her winding life -
a path that becomes clearer as each bloom is gently swept away by passing breeze.
Petals will cost the ground,
gnarled nooks and aging sunspots as good a legend for the passing milestones
as any.
When the grass is softly suffocated with browning rot,
each spilling tear will only serve to speed the season’s change.
Then in the last days between marriage bed sheets
You’ll remember what they say:
“Dead bodies are buried under the cherry trees.”
“And we’ll call it heartbreak.”
(Source: upandhustle, via dolore-perdita)
Siamese Twins
Last week you showed me the news
a picture of two little girls in little frilly dresses
Bound together at the waist.
“Their hearts share their blood,
they beat as one.”
you said, the awe so clear in your voice.
Every night since
you’ve pushed to hard
your hips into mine
your hand on my spine
I’m sure you’re convinced
if only you try
my skin will give way
and you can share my heart too.
Open the lid and pop an antidepressant
or two, you’ll wake up feeling the same.
Don’t forget the birth control
we’d hate for you to turn into the slut you’re so bent on becoming.
Dig out that teddy bear from your bag
the one he gave you when you convinced him you were still innocent enough to love.
Lay him on your bed,
Your altar,
Your only comfort,
Where everything goes dark.
Yeah I read once,
“Sleep is wonderful
because its like suicide
without the commitment.”
Perfect for you who couldn’t do anything meaningful with her life
Not even end it.
Not even convince him you would.
(Source: drcab, via anything-artsy)
There we lay our limbs
entangled; two sides a knot
We change each other
I dreamed last night
I sat alone
with a pen and some paper
drawing a topographical map of your body.
I started with the bones
capturing each curve
and filled in the valleys between
where water would gather.
Next I detailed your details
careful to not misplace one hair
Each scar I labelled
“Burn”
“Knife”
“Self”
but my favorite remains
the raised white line framing your toes
You know, the one that neither you nor your parents remember how it got there
I label it
“Heartbreak”.
When I was satisfied
I carefully copied the pages of my design
into a dark grey machine -
I printed you
on a professional blue background
framed by a white grid
and wrapped it tight around me
My favorite blanket.
The perfect metaphor
Blame—
It eats away at your insides
A thousand little teeth, rats scurrying through your veins to devour your waking moments- no.
Not eating.
It doesn’t eat it consumes.
Yes it consumes hours like it consumes light like it consumes your thoughts and-. no.
Consume is too dramatic.
It is a weight.
One you at times can barely notice till your muscles begin to protest on an offhand stretch.
On your chest it presses but no no on your lungs— constricts!
Yes blame constricts!
Your movements your thoughts your plans for the future but how you see the past oh no.
That’s not right.
Keep searching the tip of my tongue
And breaking the thesaurus’ spine
Because maybe if I analyze it
Dissect it till each word is perfect
Break the letters back into lines
And the paper into pulp—
Maybe I’ll be able to forget what it looked like in my mother’s eyes.
I do not think
I have ever been consumed by passion.
I desire it
—oh I desire it.
But no I live in the hollow
Reverberating
world of desperation
Passion may be born out of love,
But desperation..
that is what keeps my sides cold at night
when I toss and turn and try to return to a friendlier place beneath blankets.
A place I’m not alone.
