they’re playing sad love songs everywhere i go

have you ever noticed how many breakup songs they play in restaurants 

and stores that i go and the car radio 

as if they were simply played Right There and Then to taunt

me 

and myself and there's nobody else 

who can stitch up the torn and ease this pain I've never felt 

before 

when I was yours and there was comfort in being mine 

people keep telling me that "it will all heal with time"

but how to undo months and miles with you?

from being my every day 

to tell myself,

"don't you fucking cave"

because there's no light when you venture into that dark 

there's no more warm reassurance 

can't be lit by the spark

or even the most perfect match

can't detach

when i always wonder if anything reminds you of me

because right now you're in every single breath that i breathe

and every inch of skin and limbs on my body 

i wish i could change everything and be someone else entirely

cause you're in the way that i speak and how my room looks 

but i can't bear to put you in the blanks of my songbook 

you barely hide in the fold of my blanket 

or the laundry on my floor from an overflowing basket

your name might be heard beneath the choking coughing and crying 

your face is definitely in the dreams cruelly lying 

painting to me a life where you're right by my side 

and all of this was a nightmare i could just deny 

because i hate my reflection with its puffy red faced complexion 

my favourite colour and one of yours 

i try to stop myself from thinking how you're better off—as if it's something where i could keep scores

because am i even trying? when my tears are hardly drying?

when you're in every feature of my face you used to stare at 

because i swear i know deep down to every bone

that i really really shouldn't tell you that 

but even after everything

i understand it would just sidetrack

but i still

really wish

you would just

come back 

tales from the top shelf

almost

the tales from the top shelf

don’t shine enough to be sold

—and nor does their hope

of ever being told

because the dust that engulfs her

becomes suffocating,

her porcelain pose and limbs

are just left there waiting,

as the time melts away

into sunlight to sundown

and the world that she lives in

becomes the emptiest ghost town

for her pretty face

was still easily forgotten

and the cracks in the mask

are decayed and rotten

her stories lost to the very top shelf,

are fading as memories grow old.

she matters not to him, nor to herself,

for what’s a story if never told?

#almost #nyahrylie #artist #singer #songwriter #music #porcelaindoll #shelf #stories #altpop #indiepop #emergingartist #pretty #forgotten #tales #story

too boring for my diary too much for my reality

I'm the kind of person you could fall in love with the idea of: the cluelessly whimsical and hopelessly cliché. The perfect companion to a whirlwind romance that was clearly doomed from the very start. After all, I was never the kind to go beyond infatuation. But, at least that infatuation reaches down to the deepest roots and anchors itself in place. At least it grows to its full extent and even more so in the form of unhealthy obsession—almost like a virus, almost worse than a disease.

Isn't that why they call it lovesick?

I've never been very good at keeping my walls stable enough to shut people out completely. I build them up with sticks in place of bricks so that a single stone—or in this case, a charming smile or pretty eyes— could easily demolish it and wedge itself in my heart and mind. It's ridiculous how much, and simultaneously, how little I try. Don't ever let yourself get stuck in the dilemma of deciding whether the chance of connecting with someone is worth the risk that they'll leave because even the slightest sense of hesitation will be enough of a chink in your armour to entirely break through it with ease. Maybe it's the lonely part of me longing for company— in contradiction to my defensive stance—that keeps leaving the door open just a crack, ready to swing open and welcome the next one. Maybe it's the cautious part of me that keeps the lights inside dimmed, shoving them back towards the exit; always hoping they'll push back harder, always hoping they'll fight to stay.

Doesn't everybody?

It's a cruel test to pit every newcomer against the resentment left behind by a past they never knew in order to prove their resilience and unconditional care for me. It's not fair that I pin every hope and every fear to those who will never fully understand every bit of kneading previously done to shape me into who I am today. It's not fair that I can't help constantly comparing them to someone they've never even met. It's an impossibly high standard that just perpetuates the cycle of loving and leaving in a broken record repeating over and over and over. Letting the past rule your present is exactly how you end up chasing people away. It's self-destruction.

As a result, I keep finding myself tightrope walking the line between heartbreaker and heartbroken. Sooner or later I seem to end up in the latter position— all too familiar with the bitter aftertaste on my tongue, which I bite to stop myself vomiting up too much honesty.

But in my music? I'm allowed to do the exact opposite. Every song is a piece of myself locked away in a melody. Every lyric is a confession so dangerously authentic. It's almost like a diary. It's almost recklessness within reason.

So here I am, sharing a peek inside my mind. Pouring my heart out onto an operation table to be dissected by whoever cares to listen. Take me how you'd like— even if I look like an idiot...