tonight i am only the remains of my past self. only the stains of my cry on a pillow sheet. only the marks of hurts i got from biting my own lips, beating my own legs and pinching my own breasts. no one had done something as good as that, treating yourself like an enemy. my father was finding his ax a while ago, planning to kill our neighbor. i cannot do anything about it. about myself. i now start to like these all
you read to heal but then you find lines to break your heart (from Nick Lantz’ How to Travel Alone):
Just days without you and I’ve got
that midnight streetlight tan,
that Big Chug Jug caffeine carelessness, that one loose
toll booth tooth, these highway hiccups.
There are only two directions in the map
of my life: the way to you, and the way
fire for fire, we light up.
*sighs* shall i take ab philosophy? :-(
“Yes, Sylvia died. And already she has been dead too long. She wrote me a few times from England — but always about her life. About her death she was silent. Damn it. And then, maybe — maybe not — it was her business. Everyone runs around condemning her for it and I say: She had a right! After all she had the suicide in her. As I do. As many of us do. But, if we’re lucky, we don’t get away with it and something or someone forces us to live.”
— Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters
"but i have an infinite tenderness for you. that, i’ll always have. all my life long."
— blue is the warmest color (2013)