– Maggie Stiefvater


“Don’t tell me that. I’ve lived in hell for the past thousand years. I spent a thousand years wishing I’d never been born. She’s the only thing that’s made my life worth living and if that’s all I get, a few months with her- a few days, it’s more than I’ve ever hoped for. Do you really think God would forgive me for the blood on my hands, even if my soul was free? I’m going to hell no matter what happens. Let me have my pathetic hopeless love while I can. Just- let me pretend it will turn out alright.”


Predator and Prey

Original Poetry

The setting sun,
the shining stars;
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A hand on my back,
A stroke of the neck,
A love affair between predator and prey.

What I Think Of, When I Think Of Him

Original Writing

When I think of him, the first thing that comes to mind is the intoxicating sensation of being high. High on life, on love, on him. His lips are something I crave at 8am and at 11.30pm. His touch is something I miss the most in the sun-dazzled haze of a lazy summer’s afternoon. The soft caress of seduction brushing across my lips over and over again, a hand tracing its fingertips up my leg, a smile through the kiss. When I think of his eyes, I think of a soft summer sunset married with hues of honey.  I’m subconsciously aware that I might drown in the ocean of his being, yet I’ll readily dive into the deep despite not quite knowing how to swim. During the day, I want to rip my heart into shreds and watch the little pieces float around me as I look on in despair; at night, I want to put all of those pieces back together, taking no notice of the blood on my hands and the stains on the hem of my skirt. The sweet, dulcet tones of our incessant need for closeness fill the air when he nears me.

This is what I think of when I think of him.


Original Writing

The ocean finally calmed and you came out with scars coughing up memories. The branches you clung to while you were being tossed through oblivion had thorns, leaving gashes in your hands while you clung for life, scared to go too far under. And blood and water caressed your lips, like the taste of his kisses when they came from a mouth that shot bullets disguised as words. But you survived. You survived the hands pulling you under and the currents pulling you every which way.

Chipped Nails and Claw Marks

Original Poetry

Chipped nails and claw marks on my heart,
raw wounds cracking as the light turns to dark.
He whispered “I love you” softly into my ear,
I shuddered to think what he had in store for me here.
His touch dripped with venom onto my skin.
I was forced to stand there and watch the end begin.
As the distance (between us) grew,
long gone were the “I adore you”‘s
that girl, who is she?
The heavens, they cry out,
the love of their distressed creations now cast in doubt.
With my head on his chest,
we sobbed – “We tried our very best.”

Apologies of Love

Original Writing

I’m sorry that all of my words roll off my tongue in metaphors and my sentences string themselves together like needles and thread but I read too much poetry and over time, I have picked up the tiny habits. I’m sorry that I never stop talking until my letters have formed works of art and I’ve finished describing my thoughts and emotions in a way that nobody understands, but somehow they understand anyway. I’m sorry that it takes so long to get things done when I’m around because I spend half my time staring into the distance, wondering what the clouds would taste like, and how I would put that taste on paper, and you spend all your time snapping your fingers in front of my face as though that will scare the poetry out of my mind to slip onto the street and seep through the gutters where nobody will ever find it. My apologies could go on for miles but I don’t have the space of time to tell you all of them, and for that, I am sorry, too, but sorry will never change the fact that I have let the poetry creep down my throat and claw itself into my bones, take apart my every being and replace my heart with words I have no trouble saying but you have trouble listening to. I know that eventually, you will grow tired of it, but until then, I will hand you love letters when you least expect it and write your name into my lungs so that even when I cannot breathe, I will remember the sound of your voice. I will surprise you with afternoon picnics and concert tickets and movie nights and even though while you are rubbing your thumb on the back of my hand I am writing a poem in my mind about the feel of it, I still have not managed to write a poem that describes you perfectly enough because you are not merely something that can be put into words, and no poetry will ever be worthy of you. My love for you is a sensation that only I will ever get the pleasure of having because although my mind is filled with beautiful words, none of them will ever be beautiful enough for you.