Thinking Of How Writings And Bathrooms Have Become My Safe Spaces, To The Point Where I Can Be Around

crush by richard siken // richard diebenkorn // richard diebenkorn // if there’s a way out i’ll take it by lora mathis

If you wanna love the world, where do you start?

I wanna write a story

about the sun that was once my chest,

about the cloud that was once my head,

about reaching for air, how I was finally able

to fill my lungs with a single breath,

how I've learned about peace and then heard

something inside me crack.

If you wanna love the world, where do you start?

I move too fast, it's my thing

to set a pace and outrun it;

it's my thing to collect my tears just in case

all drinking water gets poisoned -

can only hope that I've cried enough

so I won't die of thirst.

If you wanna love the world, where do you start?

'Cause I can feel like I'm about to break,

again;

I remember so very clearly

how I was making deals back then

for just a splinter of, not joy,

but potential.

Cycles over cycles, little athlete, tell me -

didn't you pass yourself a million times?

Do you still mourn the dreams

you once had when you were more than stuck

and just needed to get out?

If you wanna love the world, step by step,

how do you do that without needing to resurrect;

I found my place in the world and came back from the dead,

but casket diaries, they become quite exhausting -

take a second, just imagine it,

it's no fun anymore the millionth time

'cause I know by now

how my coffin's shaped and

my fear has turned to resignation.

So how does it come the sun still hurts as badly,

so how does it come that the light on my skin

still feels like it did on the first day?

Thinking of how writings and bathrooms have become my safe spaces, to the point where I can be around other people, and instead just go to a bathroom and just write, but it's also a balancing act, the act of trying not feel everything at once lest you break down...And how to actually allow your emotions to flow and let them not define you. It's an uncomfortable, comfortable safe space where I know this writing helps, but I don't would rather not feel anything, life is weird but true like that, we are all somewhat prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we at certain points in our lives are all defined by something we cannot change

“It’s a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you are ready. I have this feeling that actually no-one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now.”

— Hugh Laurie

flannery o'connor

I wanted to write honestly what I really think of the girl I love so I did, I won't be able to tell but hear Tumblr

when I think about sunshine and laughter  it is your face that comes to my mind.

I'm holding you tightly so you don't slip away away, I think  I'm holding on too tight my finger lingering slowly up, it strokes your soft hand, along your cheeks, I twist my finger around your hair. damn, I forgot  you don't like that.

I see something in your eyes fuck, I'm stranded in an art museum.

I'm alone in your garden and my head is full of you. I like you too much I want you all to myself. What is your dream, this world. Our Dreamworld. The garden we are laying seeds down for. I think, what if one day I have to forget your eyes? Your voice ?   I wonder will I lose you? I'm holding on so tight, it feels like I'm fighting a whole city.

The seeds, what will happen to the seeds I'm planting. the trees, the flowers, the lilies, the roses, the sunflowers and avo trees - they always were too expensive in shops. will they have blossomed? Have you tasted its fruit? will I have to tear it down, Will I have to burn this garden too? I can't,

I will water it forever and wait but what if you return only with a firestick? My tears fill up rivers for you. But my feelings fill the ocean. Is this an endless garden? don't plant thistles or ivy! My heart pains, I hate tearing down gardens, Have I already? Tell me what it is that you see? In the mirror I see, no lily, no rose, no sunflower. I turn and see baby blue Cadillacs driven by peg-legged nuns on pogo sticks. I lay my head on your heart I hear one, two, three heartbeats.

Will I be turned into a person who's text is left on read. but don't worry I say. I will never say a word

Memory does not count distance

Nor days or month's

Time illuminates memory

Memory is pain

So judge me not when I think of you

Memories turn my blood red

Turn it into ink

This ink is What speaks to you now

Bleeding is a slow dance

Slow dance between survival and death

If I told you that the medication for my condition

Is you

What would you do?

Her: I wish someone would take me out on a date

Me: well my lady, let's go out

Her: you are asking me out, are you going joking or...

Me: well no if you say yes to my date

Her: you are crazy

Me: I have to go...

“If you want to know who controls you, look at who you are not allowed to criticize.”

— Voltaire (via emergentpattern)