And how do I know?

On perfect Sunday afternoons all I can do is think about you. About being with you. About all of the things we could be doing. The places we could be wandering off together. I don’t even like coffee but I’d sit outside on a patio and drink it with you. You annoy me on a regular basis yet I still come back around day after day. The things you say make me squirm uncomfortably given that they are too cute to possibly be real. But you are real. And I guess I am real, after all. And we are here. Now. There’s a quote that goes, “I don’t deserve you, but God, I want to. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.” And I don’t think that’s ever been ever to ring more true than now. And how do I know? Because not only do I want to be better everyday for you, but I also know I need to. I don’t “have to” because you’re so embracing and accepting - but I, myself, wouldn’t have it any other way than to be a better me for you. To do whatever it takes to look across the table at you. To hold your hand on a long drive every Sunday afternoon to come.

-Cierra B.

I wrote

I wrote songs, poems, stories all by, for, from, to, about one single person. One single person. They inspired me, they made me see and feel and experience things that would not be possible any other way during any other time with any other person. They don’t even know I think which most people would call selfish and others would call beautiful in some twisted, hopeful, unrequited kind of way. But that person is miles away and has been worlds away for even longer. And now that I’m in a completely different place in my life I can’t help but feel like I’m also in the same place if that makes any perspective sense. Because without you I’m seeing and feeling and experiencing things that I haven’t before… And it is because you are not here. I can’t tell someone else I love them and mean it. I can’t stay up all night and wake up early the next morning for someone worth it like you were. I can’t cry paragraphs onto a page. I can’t do those things anymore the way I could before. I sat alone for literally three hours trying to figure out what to do next. I wrote


while many of you have followed me for a super long time, and I used to be super open about names and who was who and which poem/writing was directed towards which person, now is not the case anymore. every entry I post about love isn’t necessarily about the same person, and they aren’t all to the same degree of feeling, every time I am frustrated don’t think you know the reasons. questions I want to answer one time and one time only 1. if it’s not tagged ‘x’ it’s not about him 2. yes, I deleted some stuff of here, because at this time that’s not where it belongs… 3. am I still in love with x? well when you’re in love…. 4. I don’t post on my old youtube account, I only use the dearcierra3 one, 5. as for vimeo, I still use it and have been working on a project that’s taken longer than expected, it’ll be up…..eventually 6. where have I been? I did something really stupid aka stopped writing completely for like too long, and stopped posting for even longer 7. everything that I write does not go on here, not even a quarter of it is on here. 8. yeah I have another tumblr that no one knows the link to, where there are old/rare writings/unorganized shit… and yeah I still use it occasionally.

100 years

100 years. Did you know that when it’s hit 100 years since an artist, writer, composer, producer, whatever has died their work becomes owned by the public? Upon learning this my first thought was what would I give to the public? What would they get to own? What part of me do I want to preserve? More than just words on a page or 30 seconds of inspiration from a clever line… Above all else I want to give them what they need and want more than anything else. I don’t write love letters, I don’t speak to my tear soaked reflection in the broken mirror. I speak to the future version of myself, revealing the world inside of me. So that I can, when I go back and reread my own etchings can know just who I was when I was writing it and just who I was on my way to being. There’s blades, an car rides with the sunroof open, two weeks in a freezing January where I attended three family funerals, sex and sex and more….drugs, there’s I hate yous, there’s prayers with my name at the bottom of the list. People will read all of these and call them equally beautiful because of their rawness and mystery. But I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to leave loose ends for people to question and try to interpret. When writing I don’t consider the audience for more than a second… in the form of the words seeping into the hundreds of hollow gun-shot like holes that pierced through their souls. I don’t see open hands begging for more art…. I see my own hands begging to create, to translate, to release. What do I want to leave open for grabs 100 years from now? I want to leave my hands, open and giving… a better question… what will you take?

-Cierra B.

Anonymous said: How do you recorde your music? And can you post some new songs?

iiii don’t currently do music, it was just me having fun/exploring. My brother is in a music group & I’ve used studio equipment for recording then I used the PC version of garage band, forgot what it’s called just google it, and I’ve messed with synths before. If I ever do get into music again it’ll just be me and my guitar.

Now and later

I’ve developed a love for you. I’m guessing if I was with you years from now it would only develop more. It’s totally pure and sincere. All I can say is that I have a genuine love and admiration for the person you are. There’s so many parts that make up a person, and I actually like every single one.. Individually as well as collectively. It wouldn’t be fair for me to only like you under certain conditions or try to pick and choose which parts of you are acceptable.. Sometimes that does happen I know, but I’m glad that I don’t have to choose but every part of you is great and I know it’ll only get even better over time as you inevitably grow into an even better person than you already are at this moment.

I know it will not be the same.

I know you will not want to hear about my day (not like you ever did…) I know you will not want to take your time looking at and poking my face. You won’t scratch my head, you won’t tickle my side.. you won’t touch my cheeks and my nose. But I kept it all for you. All you want to know is do you still fit inside. And you do. But where do I fit, in your dreams or in your arms? Is it neither anymore.

"Eventually, I started needing to recreate the sadness and longing within myself that had first inspired me to write many of the entries, so I could write from that place again. It’s like being addicted to painkillers, so to justify to the doctor why you need them, you start hurting yourself to prove your point. I started spending my time tearing open old wounds just so I could write about what the blood looked like when it came out."
Iain Thomas

I didn’t want us to go out like this..

is that really gonna be where we leave things off? I’m sorry you hate me, and I’m sorry I always apologize when I shouldn’t. I just shouldn’t. I want to be important to you. I was there for you on the worse day of your life. The worse night until 6am. I was there for you on your best. The day that you haven’t even named yet. It makes my stomach turn and it makes my eyes wet. I’m sorry you hate me. I’m sorry you hate me. I feel so stupid, I want to punch myself a million times. I don’t want to leave with those being our last words…your last words to me. I look desperate, because I am. I don’t want to ever not be a part of your life. Don’t you get it?

I wrote you another letter,

the thing is, when I started writing these letters, I promised myself that I would never scratch them out, rip them up, throw them away after I finished them. I promised myself that if what I was feeling in that moment was real enough for me to write it down then it was real enough to stay. But hours after folding up this third addition to the pack I realized I came on too strong and you never liked that. I felt like that small version of myself I was that day when you said what you said and I burst out into loud tears because I was home alone and I texted you back paragraphs of why you should stop. I felt like a beggar, like I was pleading with you though pen and paper. I don’t want to ever again feel like I am convincing you. If it was real enough for me then it was real enough to stay.

I want to rip your skin apart, I want to peel it back to reveal your fruit. It might hurt a little and there will be blood but all the better to see you my dear. I want the real map of your body not that false image your skin and flesh presents. Of all this time I showed you my insides first and my outsides later. When we strip our clothes it’s like we’re on the table with an hour glass. It’s time to shred you down from head to toe, with all the time in the world. It’s time. There will be blood but all the better to see you my dear.