Photography By Hilde Engerbråten

They’d been lulled into a false sense of security with this gentle, quiet version of him. But gentle didn’t mean safe, and quiet didn’t mean meek. The same terrifying fire burned in him still, an intense mix of unpredictability and unyielding.

— Yushan C.

Bastard,

they called you

As if the lack of father is a curse

(It is not)

Murderer,

they called you

As if the ones you killed deserved any less

(They did not)

Darling,

she called you

As if her gentle words would be enough to save you

(They were not)

Cursed,

you call yourself

What do they know,

of broken souls and

breaking hearts

mothered by a broken promise and

sired from a broken vow

(Nothing. They know nothing.)

— y.c.

A friend of mine wants flowers for her room, she says. 

She wants to make it beautiful and vibrant and fresh, but

Blossoms fade and petals mold, she says,

Clutching her falsified flowers, 

Petals carefully crafted—

A forgery,

hundreds of days in the making in factories where they make 

          hundreds of petals that never die.

Immortality is the prize, beauty a side effect, and yet

How many of us choose both as a goal?

-

—Immortality comes with plastic petals (y.c.)

Years ago, my friend had a ganglion cyst, right on her wrist. 

Fluid build-up. Best to let it rest. 

Don’t aggravate the joint. 

It’ll go away on its own. 

.

Some days, I think memory is a bit like that. 

A build-up in oft-agitated joints, 

The nerve bundle harmed by relentless back-and-forth that has become

       habit, 

Become routine. 

It goes away on its own, quiet as a last breath stealing out of a lung. 

Fades as time wears on.

.

Other times, it’s more like a broken bone, never healed right. 

You remember the crack, the pain, the wrong-ness

       of the displaced shards of calcium. 

You remember the painstaking, irritating, frustrating process

       of healing and relearning simple tasks. 

.

On rainy days, the bone twinges. 

On rainy days, you are right back to the break. 

.

—you can always wait for the sun (y.c.)

Sometimes I think that eternal love is the adult Santa Claus … we all know that it does not exist but nobody wants to hear it …

Alessandro Cattelan 

@thelovejournals

(via thelovejournals)

Ver • ti • go

(noun)

1. Standing on a rooftop with you and your

daredevil smirk and unfaltering gaze; the

warmth of your hand as you took mine,

joy turning my world to a dizzying

kaleidoscope of scents and colours

2. Standing in an empty flat with pieces of you

and me scattered on the floor; feeling that

chasm opening inside me and knowing your

wouldn’t be here to catch me, not this time

(—Yushan C.)

There are endings, and there are endings. 

-

It was snowing, I think, that last day. Snowing the way it hadn’t yet, that year. 

The thing with snow:

It wipes away everything you’ve left behind, 

Buries it, 

like a pirate burying hoarded gold. 

We lay down our half-finished hopes, the midnight musings we’d  incanted into streetlight-lit hollowness. 

Hello! we cried. We are here. We are

Here, 

Like footprints in the mud and the branches of a fallen tree jutting up from the ground, we are

Here. 

There was moonlight, stealing away our

whispers 

like the wind borrows secrets, 

like a faerie steals a child. 

-

Count down from five, love. 

The snow is falling, and the stars are bright, and

the moon is listening. 

Count down from five—

promise me you’ll remember this is not the

ending it seems to be. 

-

—this is what it means to begin (y.c.)

I thawed, didn’t I?

Like winter ice in spring, 

Mountain run-off streaming into brooks and rivers. 

I felt the warmth of life—

Blossoms bloomed crimson violet vibrant blues. 

The sun was on my heart; I felt it melt, felt it give. 

Yet now, I stand staring into nothing searching for something; 

I stare at the placid blue surface around me, 

Not a ripple in sight.

This isn’t stoicism, 

This isn’t strength. 

This is calcifying into marble, is dying 

With your eyes wide open, 

Is stranding yourself on a lonesome little island and thinking it might

       not be so bad after all, disappearing.

I thawed, yes, but now 

I think all that was keeping me from sinking was the permafrost 

And now, that’s gone, too. 

(remind me: how did I ever mistake disappearing for flying?)  

-

—Spring Melt (y.c.)