Some of us were never born to be
successful, but were simply born
to work hard.
-a parody of success.
@korrosiveteeth / korrosiveteeth.tumblr.com
Some of us were never born to be
successful, but were simply born
to work hard.
-a parody of success.
mother, please forgive me; i did not intend to fall in love. but how could i not fall in love with the freedom he offered in open palms, as if the whole world had always been at my feet and i had never thought to look down?
forgive me, mother, please. but this was never a love affair with a man; this is a love affair with myself. and i ask your forgiveness because this is not an apology. i refuse to be sorry for stepping outside of this birdcage life, and if my wings led to him, i am not sorry for that either.
mother, forgive me for breaking your heart. i was only discovering my own.
— to demeter, from persephone // p.s.
so no one is going to talk about the time dostoyevsky said “and i seem to have such strength in me now, that i think i could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, ‘i exist.’ in thousands of agonies- i exist. i’m tormented on the rack- but i exist! though i sit alone in a pillar- i exist! i see the sun, and if i don’t see the sun, i know it’s there. and there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.” because hOly fuckkkk
olin ivory / mary oliver / anne michaels / anna kamienska / max porter / richard siken
the bridge between life and death is far more cruel than either. // m.a.w (via onceuponamusing)
14.
Let’s go to bed early tonight and hope that when we wake up this was all a big nightmare. I’ll call you up all overwhelmed and spill the details quickly before I forget. The world was caged. The sky was gorgeous and the beach was calling. But I couldn’t step out. I ran out of all my favourite foods. And I had to attend a dozen work video calls. You would laugh and tell me it’s all okay and that you’re picking me up to take me to lunch at my favourite restaurant. The world is okay. ‘You are okay,’ you’ll tell me while you kiss me. And as the sun shines on us you’ll tell me how gorgeous I look. I’ll feel so silly for being so shaken by the nightmare. I’ll tell you how grateful I am for this. For sunny days. For eating at our favourite restaurants. For knowing you. Let’s wake up now.
— April 14th, Tuesday Napowrimo, 2020
Anne Carson, from Norma Jeane Baker of Troy
Letters from Medea, Salma Deera.
Where do the stars go?
Far away,
Far from the heavens they escape;
Running like children,
It’s all a game
To them.
They travel,
To a place no one has seen,
To a place no one has heard,
To a place no one has dreamed of.
They dance,
The feathers of their cloaks peeling
Off,
Tiny;
They’re the size of grains of sand;
Their dust settling on the eyes of sleeping suns.
–Raven in the Matchbox
What happens after?
When the star meets the ground
And the light fades
And the wish is like a whisper
That lingers long after the sound is gone
A star is only as bright as the darkness it comes from.
Except from Eden // L.H.Z
“Edgar Allan Poe once said something along the lines that there is nothing more poetic than the untimely death of a young beautiful woman, and he spent his entire existence learning to find the perfect words. Sylvia Plath wrote ‘Lady Lazarus,’ and she had died and come back to life, more times than once. We speak often of life and death, having and not having, here and gone, but in the end, what do these things mean? I’ve been thinking about living in gray areas, and the existence of black and white. I’ve been thinking about loving then losing, but loving still. I’ve been thinking about having and not having, history and present, the transiency of this condition. I’ve been thinking about happiness and sadness, how we all might learn again after forgetting. I’ve been thinking of rebirth. In every ending lies a beginning. I’ve watched the seasons change each year, and at the same time, I’ve watched myself metamorphose. We mourn losses, but with each death, I’ve watched a birth. Do not fear absence, nor losing, for the lost can be found again.”
— V.I.P.P.
365/365 // Six word story
“He stretched my hymen, but I Remembered to catch the blood Before it stained the sheet. He stretched a muscle I’ve never felt. He pulled and caught at the tendrils of My kindness. Sweet pearls he melted down, To wax and wick. My soul was tight and stinging, Never tearing. (My Grandmothers prayers weaved it thick) I left him soft and sleeping, not a muscle bruised. I did not catch or tear at any part of him. Out of the window, his care was creeping. In my dreams, I longed to be the one who left him bleeding. All his tears went unused.”
— Hymen, CASSIE FRIEL
slowing down
they tell me to slow down and
worry about my health.
time is slipping through my skin,
my wrist resembles wet paper
and your fingernails still make half-moons in my skin.
but i can’t stop thinking about the fingerprints you pressed into me
and how i tried to cut them out-
Yesterday, I learned
Because there’s no particles
In space
There’s nowhere for the sound waves
To travel
Resulting in complete silence,
All of this is to say
Our words
Will never leave this earth
Chained to rock
With only our eyes
To touch the stars.