A really mean letter to you
I guess I don’t really know you. I mean, not anymore.
This new perspective feels so unfair. I’ve hated you, burned your memory in my heart like fuel. And now I
I just don’t even care like I used to.
I hate people who talk on their phones in the library more than I hate you.
I hate the centuries of history that said it wasn’t important to get my permission before reaching inside of my body.
But you’re just. Nothing.
And that’s an improvement for the both of us really.
The sentence that destroyed a nation of hearts: And that sometimes I feel the same way
There’s this strange explosion in my chest (a feeling reserved just for you) when I see your name in digital ink.
It’s appearance pulls we backwards through tunnels made up of empty pill bottles and lit by 2 headlights, one small lighter, and infinite stars.
From my newly painted apartment walls, my wedding photos take aim and fire, spewing doubt over my second-hand-store kitchen set-up, because if I was so wrong about you—
And my thoughts grind to a halt here. Because I wasn’t wrong about you.
I was honest and I’ll never understand what the fuck changed. I honestly hurt and honestly loved and honestly tried.
I was honest all the way to recovery, to fewer and fewer pills, to finding the love of my life, to better grades and a great job and I was honest to a fault.
I sit sometimes and I tell myself: Perhaps he was honest, too. In his strange way, perhaps his honest is just covered with angles that I don’t understand and depths that I can’t reach.
Honest in a way that collides with my heart to make that strange explosion in my chest (a feeling reserved just for you).
"Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I’ve something important to say!" Alice turned and came back again.
"Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar.
"Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could."
Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll
Con Cariño, Mercedes
I looked you up.
And if you ever look me up you’ll wonder if this is about you.
Well, it is. Because sitting there, in that office, with my heart in my throat I still choke on your last words about the way things had to be.
You were so much more foreign than I ever guessed from inside that space between your strong arms.
Your grip was evidently not of pure pressure and love, but rather a composite of claws, nails, and broken light bulbs, leaving deep wounds on my ego.
And even as my husband weaves cariño and solaz entre mis dedos, le ruego que me diga de nuevo de la chica que soy yo
Una chica sin malicia, sin engaño ninguno
con marcas de las vias de un tren en el brazo
Tal vez haya canciones
«Hay aire y sol, hay nubes. Allá arriba un cielo azul y detrás de él tal vez haya
canciones; tal vez mejores voces… Hay esperanza, en suma. Hay esperanza para nosotros,
contra nuestro pesar.
»Pero no para ti, Miguel Páramo, que has muerto sin perdón y no alcanzarás ninguna
Pedro Paramo por Juan Rulfo
-¿Por qué lloras, mamá? -preguntó; pues en cuanto puso los pies en el suelo reconoció
el rostro de su madre.
-Tu padre ha muerto -le dijo.
Y luego, como si se le hubieran soltado los resortes de su pena, se dio vuelta sobre sí
misma una y otra vez, una y otra vez, hasta que unas manos llegaron hasta sus hombros
y lograron detener el rebullir de su cuerpo.
Por la puerta se veía el amanecer en el cielo. No había estrellas. Sólo un cielo plomizo,
gris, aún no aclarado por la luminosidad del sol. Una luz parda, como si no fuera a
comenzar el día, sino como si apenas estuviera llegando el principio de la noche.
Afuera en el patio, los pasos, como de gente que ronda. Ruidos callados. Y aquí,
aquella mujer, de pie en el umbral; su cuerpo impidiendo la llegada del día; dejando
asomar, a través de sus brazos, retazos de cielo, y debajo de sus pies regueros de luz; una
luz asperjada como si el suelo debajo de ella estuviera anegado en lágrimas. Y después el
sollozo. Otra vez el llanto suave pero agudo, y la pena haciendo retorcer su cuerpo.
-Han matado a tu padre.
-¿Y a ti quién te mató, madre?
LOLITA LEMPICKA by YOANN LEMOINE with ELLE FANNING by BETC MUSIC
Elle Fanning traverses through a densely wooded wonderland in the latest promo from French director and musical mastermind Yoann Lemoine, aka Woodkid.
The Train Hit Me And I Didn’t Feel It
You shouldn’t fall asleep on your heart. It’ll go numb.
Maybe I should log out of here sometimes. Just to hear what God has to say for a change.
Voice of the Spirit (by MormonMessages)
"This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important."
This might be my favourite quote on writing ever.
"@academioflife Smiling makes you happier than chocolate. Study found that to replicate brain stimulation of one smile u need to eat 2000 bars of chocolate."
I could eat 2000 bars of chocolate.
"I suspect the most we can hope for, and it’s no small hope, is that we never give up, that we never stop giving ourselves permission to try to love and receive love."
Abide With Me by Elizabeth Strout (via lostinthesounds)
It was that Sunday in the sun in front of my cousin’s house You came to me and I cried for you for you You took a picture of me with your hands And I showed you how to feel the grass and the sun and the earth You showed me how to see the trees And I looked into your eyes and you seemed to see mine—you held my heart—It was like the beginning of something sweet or sick that we both seemed to catch so large and so full new blossoms fell open every day
I should write a history of things:
The feeling of worn leather shoes with holes to let Argentine rain in
thin foam mattresses for forced sleep
the burn on my neck or the skinning of my leg
braided hair and borrowed jackets
your hand on my hand
Does everyone feel this longing?
This insides-out longing?
that fills sheet upon
pillowcases and night shirts?
One that raps knuckles and pulls skin away from bone?
scrapes the air out of lungs
and burns words into the insides of the mouth?
"no love will end"
"the selfishness will shrink out of it
and the rest will live”
"love cannot be waste"