Moss and Mushrooms

The way it's meant to be

A happy capturing spirituality, light hearted moments, and positive memories.
TW: Wound/bruise mention

Elliotcore
I wear a silver locket that is unable to close, collared shirts layered under sweaters or painted t-shirts, vans with dirt littering every inch.
I see poetry in the little things, I see poetry in buying books at the thrift shop, in pages reread so many times they have holes in them, in a question with no correct answer.
I embrace what is seen as abnormal, being a man with a pretty personality, owning more stuffed animals than anyone I know, rambling on about my favorite things because everything connects back to them, existing with excitement that cannot sit still.
Leather bags with colorful keychains, mushrooms and heart shaped things in every area of my bedroom, stacks of diaries and art journals, poetry books with lines highlighted on every page.
Passion that radiates color, passion that eves and flows into everything, passion that reshapes and defines your life.
Shades of blue and teal color pencil used to write diary entries, shades of black and red used in love letters, colors of yellow and green like the sun setting on a mossy river.

Two twin beds
She is exactly what she needs to be, always bringing a laugh from your stomach, dedicating herself to her friends and her schoolwork. Strong because she had to be. Holding together all the pieces, aching and bruised, yellow and sunny.
In the early hours of the morning, when the only light in the room is the harsh glow of your cell phone screens, she lets you in, telling you about the lovely Sundays but also the soul crushing Tuesday nights. She tells you about yourself without trying to fill the room with daisies.
You laugh over things that won't make sense when you remember them tomorrow. You stopped being understandable dozens of minutes ago but you are both laughing regardless. Laughing as in wheezing, laughing as in crying.
In the darkness of the room you find yourself closer with her than you ever did during daylight.

Like the people do
I spent months rotting in my bedroom, nearly decomposing, and told myself that this is what I am, but I don't want to be alone.
The seasons are sunnier when you are around.
I enjoy our moments of laughter, when we stopped making sense a long time ago and we are still laughing, the moments when the tears flow as I wheeze, laughing about everything, laughing about nothing.
I want to see you, the parts of you that someone deemed too strange to exist, tell me about the abnormal thing you've left unwritten, tell me about the oddities because they make you more lovable. Tell me about the passion for anything, tell me what you learned from it, tell me what you do late at night.
Tell me about the stories that rerun in your mind, the bruises left unseen, I cannot heal them but I can hold you as the wounds scar over. I feel honored that you would let me into the dark bedroom of your mind, I'll hold your hand when we are there.

Carrying me
I pray because I'm supposed to. I pray because someone told me it would help. I pray because my relentless worries quiet themselves. I pray because I do not want to live aching and choke on my own vomit in the end. I pray because it temporarily removes the thoughts I entertain that make me sick I pray because it makes me feel like a person I want to be, someone good.
I'm sitting on the dimly lit couch in the living room, I pull out my collection of prescribed prayers, prayers written on notebook paper, prayers written on pages with holes and tears, I begin reading. I read about God directing my thoughts, I read about God guiding me, I read about God keeping me sober, I read about his will (not mine) being done.
I reread over the poetic verses, my eyes mulling over them again and again, closing them, looking upwards, and reciting his words in my mind, water sinks into the dirt.
It's not me who's making sense of it. It's not me who created these feelings of happiness. It's not me who created an internal meadow. It's not me who gave myself the will to do the things that were awaiting on the not-so-grand agenda, it's been God this whole time.
When I try to do it on my own I do not get far, I leave a trail of blood behind me, I crawl under the floor, I shake inside of warm homes, I use the same stories with different words, I'll bruise you and feel myself bleeding, it's the way I am, at my core.
When I am able to find peace and joy, when I am able to feel unashamed and elated, when I am able to ask and listen in some faint sense, when I am able to exist outside of the mold and rot, that is not because of me. I tried to make myself good, but I never found it, and now that I am beginning to get a taste of something sweet, and I am not the one feeding me spoonfuls.