“And So It Seems That I Must Always Write You Letters That I Can Never Send.”

“And so it seems that I must always write you letters that I can never send.”

— Sylvia Plath

More Posts from Fleshed-outofmetaphors and Others

fleshed-outofmetaphors

5 years ago

The Bodmer Oak, Fontainebleau, 1865, Claude Monet

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fleshed-outofmetaphors

4 years ago

hey 😏

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fleshed-outofmetaphors

5 months ago

waiting for the sunlight,

sky hangs heavy,

clotted with clouds,

every minute a drip

into the vast puddle

of waiting.

they told to run—

Just run.

how to escape

when the legs are tied

to the same place,

to the same people,

to the same whatevers.

walking in circles,

feet tracing the same path

to more waiting,

more silence.

in the room

where the walls are made of promises

that never came true.

The words, they fall

from mouths like wet leaves,

unraveling slowly,

and I cannot remember

when I stopped believing them,

but now

they stick to my skin.

Expectations—

they were something bright once,

something I could grasp,

but now they are shards

in the back of my throat,

a choking on what I cannot swallow.

I am the person

who fails them,

who fails myself,

and still I stand,

to crack the earth open

and let me breathe again.

The faces around me

are nothing but mirrors

reflecting silence.

They take,

but give nothing

but their own crumbling edges,

and I keep trying

to hold them together

as if my hands aren’t already

full of cracks.

Every touch is a weight,

a slow erosion of my own spirit,

and still,

I stay.

I stay because it is easier

than the weight

of nothing.

But in this stillness,

In this place

where no one grows,

I am caught—

and I wait,

for the moment

to swallow me whole.

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fleshed-outofmetaphors

4 years ago

View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems; ‘Water’ by Wisława Szymborska tr. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

[ID: How light the raindrop’s contents are. /How gently the world touches me.]

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fleshed-outofmetaphors

5 years ago

A favourite , always !

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

— Haruki Murakami

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fleshed-outofmetaphors

4 years ago