Yes. Just don’t talk to people. They get under your skin. And then it hurts when you have to pry them out.
Sam fucked my brain up royally.
I’m relearning how to write. It’s been so long since I’ve let go without it taking over, just let things come as they will without them ripping free from the roots of my fingernails and the tips of my eyelashes.
It feels like dancing, when it supports you but at the same time envelops you. I can get eaten by the dance, feeling it tear from between my ribs and explode from the arches of my feet, pushing upwards stretching reaching finding length and space and power where there was none before, because there isn’t space inside otherwise.
But that’s reserved for cold nights where the alternative is running my lungs raw or screaming at the stars, and right now that feels like another life, another reality, where everything hurts and I’m empty no matter what I do.
Yet another life—laughing with you, skin on skin, no thought no space for logic just pure, straight joy. I can’t even begin to find the words—I have no skill for this, no practice, just (as always) too much to fit beneath the surface of my skin.
Sometimes I feel I was built so small to compensate for how expansive I can be—I get lost in myself, lost in the world outside, lost in the sound of rain or the warmth of sun on skin. I have to stay grounded, remind myself of the structure of my clavicle and the delicacy of the bones on my ankles, or abandon any hope of recovering.
i hate 2am because when it’s 2am I feel lonely and wow do i feel lonely and yeah 2am is the literal worst
My life the past 3 weeks.
Yay medical insomnia.
Yay missing people.
hypothesis: somewhere, there are suns that group into prayer circles and sing our names. somewhere, there are places to be without letting go of home. there are kisses without touching and touching without naked and naked without speaking. somewhere, somehow, there is a body much like yours, valleys that bend and rise much like yours, toes that sink into sand and soil much like yours, speaking words much like yours. somewhere there are boys in wooden sandals and prisons with no bars, and somewhere there are people who wait for us to catch up, always waiting for us to catch up.
experiment: mix green apple vodka into your sleep tonight. dream of loving yourself. dream of building a throne out of every bone that has wronged yours. dip yourself into saltwater, listen to yourself prune. be nothing but silent, let silent be nothing but you. name the blades of grass. name them Caitlyn and Azra and Colleen and Annalise. name them Venus and Mars and Mercury. be your own inhospitable planet. leave room in your bed for no one. let them earn it. leave room on your skin for no one. let them earn it. go. run. run.
conclusion: this is everywhere we will ever be. this heart is where the home is. this heart is where the house is, with cracked shingles and rusty hinges and a kitchen that smells of dough always. this is where our parents made us. this is where our parents thought of us first, this is where they saw the idea of a shared result in each other’s eyes, in each other’s hems and necklines and sudden bareness. this place is brilliant, baby. this is not a science, this cannot be measured or calculated or poured into beakers. this is the air between fingers, this is stretch marks and lovin’ it. this is castle all to yourself, this is chasing things that are not there and fucking lovin’ it.
Bottom of the River | Delta Rae
"The Lord’s gonna come for your first born son (His hair’s on fire and his heart is burning)"
MURDER MYSTERY THEME SONG
Don’t play this around me if you don’t want body rolling from now until infinity >.<
Someone in my family who is not me is listing all the softcore porn on netflix instant I find this distressing
What my eyes look like with eyeliner on.
The way that lipstick drags at your lips and slows your expressions down.
How walking in heels makes you shift your stride and redistribute your weight and lift your chin proudly.
How your eyes ache after coding in Mathematica for 4 hours straight.
What my perfume smells like, alone and on me.
Becoming aware of the things I felt like I had to do because of him, and what a relief it is to no longer feel compelled to do them.
Rediscovering clothing that I love that I haven’t worn since I was at Bryn Mawr.
Looking at myself naked and seeing how I’ve changed in the past 2 months, things he wouldn’t recognize if he saw me today. That I can keep going, keep being beautiful, even without him there to tell me.
I can’t even touch my own skin right now without falling apart.
I went from sleeping in a tank top and shorts to leggings and woolen socks and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and the sleeves over my hands so that I could not feel the warmth and the smoothness of my shoulders, the calluses of my feet, the softness of my thighs with the steel cables of the tendons that lace my knees and hips together.
Wearing a sports bra 24-7 to forget the existence of my breasts, hugging a pillow to my chest to keep from wrapping myself in my arms and relearning the ridges of my ribs and the ripples of my shoulders.
He does not deserve to have disturbed my serenity like this. He does not deserve to have brought this up in me when I was peaceful and unaware, when my body was just an instrument for dance and a tool for work and nothing else. I liked it that way. I could have gone forever never knowing there was anything else.