Clover hearted

Iris clouds

A miscellaneous and mostly light hearted chapter.
TW: mild substance/addiction mention, mild hallucination mention

Today
A little red book with words highlighted, underlined, and circled, a poetry book that feels like coming home.
Etching into my mind the things they have spoken to me, taking their kind words and writing them behind my eyelids.
A story written on my shoulders, a story that aches, a story that I am living in.
Waiting for a key so golden that it opens a door that does not exist.
Dreams of my favorite poets, dreams of old friends, dreams of walking home in the rain, dreams of wish fulfillment.
Wearing a broken locket with an inaccurate sobriety date with "clover hearted" written on notebook paper inside of it.
Having a sense that you have worn all the faces you possibly could have, each one teaching me a little bit more about what I am.
Shoes with faint pink and red stains, a hollow pen, a rock with strange marks on it.
A mind that cannot differentiate today and yesterday, a mind that cannot remember or connect to days past.
A clover in the grass, a clover blooming in my heart growing with every heartbeat, a string of clovers around my neck.

So far behind me
Maybe I live to write poems about a life after bruises, maybe in a future existence this is a memory of days past.
Maybe I'll feel a three dimensional type of happiness, maybe I will return to excitement that can't sit still, a type of happiness that is felt, known, and worn.
Maybe I'll drink too much coffee, obsess over silly TV shows, and make awkward mistakes.
Maybe I'll make jewelry and paint my clothes, maybe I'll rearrange my room again.
Maybe I'll laugh loudly with you and mean it. Maybe we'll share space in a way that is so beautiful, more than I could know today.
Maybe I'll wear rainbow freckles and we'll go to another concert, maybe I'll listen to a new death cab for cutie album and fall in love all over again.
Maybe I'll volunteer at the library and make some colorful beaded bracelets.
Maybe, I'll meet friends and boyfriends who have never seen me with a bottle in my hand or a bag in my pocket.
Maybe I find my way into a life in which the aches of today are far behind me.

Returning home
I have spent many months venturing into unforgiving woods, believing myself to be lost until I found myself in an unmarked grave, but in the end I will always look for my home.
I find home in writing at all hours, I will find it in conversations that make me feel seen and adored.
I will find home in dressing like a college professor as a high school drop out, I find home in colorful jewelry and ideas scribbled onto pages.
I find home in my bag kindly holding a dictionary within it, I find home in strange ways of living and being.
I find home in voices telling me good morning and subclinical ways of being odd.
I find home in large piles of stuffed animals, I find home in the little red book with my heart between its pages, I find home in conversations with a stranger about ugly things, I find home in my bedroom with drawings hung on the way.
I may stray from myself but I will always look for a way back home.

House of a mind
A green house stands in front of you, beautiful, daunting, lovely, haunted.
You admire the cob webs and moss climbing its edges until you descend inwards.
You walk into the living room, welcoming and hollow. You see the colorful paintings littering the walls, broken glass and black frames, a room welcome only to strangers.
The couch is warm and uninviting, stuffed toys rest on it, there are family photographs with burnt edges and people cut out of them.
The bathroom mirror has "remember why you quit" written on the mirror in pinkish red lipstick. It's empty here. The blue walls have faint stains on them. The shower hums a soft and sad classical melody.
The fridge is full of fruit and colorful stained glass windows. Dirty dishes in odd places give the room a strange meaning. The dinner table is large with one chair at the edge of it.
In the bedroom every aspect of it changes into something else if you watch for long enough, little remains stagnant. Poetry is written on the walls but the story always changes.

An aliens observations
I love their little expressions of joy.
I adore the way their faces look while in laughter and the way they move when elated.
Humans exist in many different ways, some demand the eyes of those around them, some hide within themselves, they appear to all be connected in one way or another.
Some humans are very still, some bounce their legs and flap their hands.
The humans are relentlessly in love with each other, they listen to each other's melodies and read each other's daydreams.
Humans are lovely in ways they cannot recognize.

March 11th
I talk with him and smile as I do it.
I worry about nothing and everything at the same time.
My vision is blurry and filled with hallucinations.
Dinner remains quiet until me and her talk about the little joys in life.
I sit with the men and for a moment I can stay.
I wear a blue and green bracelet reading the word "bug."
I drink coffee like a maniac.
I realize the thoughts about all I am doing wrong aren't always right.
I hear voices but not in the way I once was.
I admire a table covered in little pieces of art.
I know he will be okay and I can't wait to hear about it.
I try to commit to memory all the kind words that have been said to me.
I talk about dreams. I admire the shades of blue from a pen.