At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts. I fought with my knuckles white as stars, and left bruises the shape of Salem. There are things we know by heart, and things we don’t.
“Often in my lectures when I use the phrase “imperialist white-supremacist capitalist patriarchy” to describe our nation’s political system, audiences laugh. No one has ever explained why accurately naming this system is funny. The laughter is itself a weapon of patriarchal terrorism.”—bell hooks (via kimikkomi)
“Desire can produce a universe; its powers are miraculous. Just as a small matchstick can set a huge forest on fire, so does a desire light the fires of manifestation. The very purpose of creation is the fulfillment of desire.”—Nisargadatta Maharaj, I Am That (via oceanofmind)
And I’m here to remind you Of the mess you left when you went away It’s not fair to deny me Of the cross I bear that you gave to me You, you, you oughta know
You seem very well, things look peaceful I’m not quite as well, I thought you should know Did you forget about me Mr. Duplicity I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?
If only knew how to speak the language of loneliness, instead of broken murmurs. Maybe people would finally understand me. Like how I get angry at the smallest, simplest things. Like how the moon sometimes makes me cry. Like how the ocean prompts me to walk into it and continue until I breathe in the salt.
People would understand the reasons why I don’t think a sunrise is such a big deal. And why I think sunsets make more sense. Or why I think Saturday nights mean a down-comforter and slumbering alone. Why ice cream always tastes best when consuming it in secret.
Or why I want nothing more than to be lonely with someone. Because lonely alone is way too self destructive.
“Can’t you see I’m scared to speak and I hate my voice because it only makes you angry? I only talk when you are sleeping, that’s when I tell you everything. And I imagine that somehow you’re going to hear me.”—Sylvia Plath (via atleastitwas)
“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am, still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.”—Sylvia Plath
sometimes it hurts instead sometimes you have to sit for hours, googleing your symptoms. like, why the hell am I so goddamn tired all the time and why do my muscles ache and why is there an excess of water always forming on the insides of my eyes
sometimes the fallout isn’t enough. the fight, the arms, the skank and baby in a carriage. You know, the usual cycle of things. "Like you didn’t even exist"
Like you don’t even exist. can any statement ever be more… profound? To state that the fact that I breathe, that my mother birthed me—it never happened in his world. In his world, I was never actually conceived, or thought up
or lovely at all.
Profound? Fuck, it’s not profound, or interesting or screwed up It’s fucking unimaginable to never hold breath in someone else’s life anymore when every sensation around you is filled with his warm steam on the back of my neck You exist everywhere
I feel your teethmarks with every toe-tingling step I take to bed each night You exist in every puff of smoke from every mouth of any one who has ever smoked in my vicinity. You’re the lyrics to the songs that I hate to love the most on days when my car radio has a mind of its own
And I’m finding it more and more impossible to get rid of you without getting rid of parts of me.
“Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love”, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.”—Louis de Bernières, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (via misplacedtexans)
Finality. Always waiting for finality. Because there’s where we think peace lies. I think we’re wrong. I think there’s no such thing as an ending, or closure, or rest. How small we must think life is, to give it such limits and boundaries. Truth is—there is no end. There will never be closure. Fake, lucrative words said in passing, warm feelings, small smiles. Closure, we call it. Illusion, I call it. Something to help you sleep at night. To make you believe that you’re over it—that you are all better now, healed somehow. It doesn’t really work that way. Pain is a persistent little bastard. It refuses to be written off or forgotten about.
I will always be waiting, waiting and wanting, wanting and needing finality. A closure that will never come. A curtain fall in an endless play. A sunset with a ceaseless sun.