the thing you are most
afraid to write.

write that.


— Nayyirah Waheed (via theglasschild)

(via theglasschild)

To: The guy who put my insecurity down to sleep, Satria Prabhawa.

Dearest, neither tears nor ink stained on a page could begin this.

Dearest, I feel certain I’m going mad again. I can’t even write this properly, I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. I want to say that everybody knows it. Everything has gone from me except the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t even think two people could have been happier than we have.

Dearest, what’s that line? We are going to get hurt. That’s our nature, humane. But luckily, we get to choose who hurts us, and I like my choice. My mother warned me about drugs in the streets but never ones with deep dark brown eyes with a little scar under the right eye and a heartbeat. You are my coffee and whiskey and everything in between.

Dearest, I would never re-write you. You are by far most complete and greatest food that I’d die to eat. My favorite part is when you lay down your eyes on me, it is like you have a personal vendetta under my skin. You and your splendour; lingering in my brain across a timelessly barefoot reality.

Dearest, I’ve never met someone who thinks so freely like you do. You are beautiful, physically, emotionally, intellectually. All this madness if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you give me Moon Stone in return.

Dearest, Infatuated with you, I am. You whispering “Sarah”, I groan and drop my forehead to yours, you make me love my name so much, until I don’t want to hear somebody else pronounce it better than you. Purple, wonder and majesty, it developed a name. You are heavenly.

- Sarah Saniyyah

That’s the thing about pain, it demands to be felt. These walls only speak a language that your body couldn’t hear. Desire me like you have a personal vendetta against my skin. She pulls out a pocket watch. Your heart is where time should be. But last night I dream about you drowning with no one to save you. As long as I can remember this is how I’m able to get out of bed. A moonlit pass that bring me to you, across desert and mountains, through snow and highway traffic, slow and loud; your hips, good god.

(Sarah Saniyyah)