I've Nodded And Being Complicit In My Own Destruction, maybe More Than I Should Have. Because That Was

every time I talk about my own abuse for the sake of justice or awareness, all the words punch the back of my throat, a heavy thumping that spills from my mouth like the ugly mess it was. it’s still so painful and emptying and numbing all at the same time. It feels like I spoil the conversation, that I’m being uncouth or impolite. my story has no place anywhere.

a glass just empty, full of unoccupied space. a head tangled with words. I’m still confused about the concept of justice. and love. and forgiveness. it just feels unfair. just feels so wrong to make my own body’s safety into a movement or a form of activism. I don’t want to be loud or strong or empowered, I just want to be safe.

this world, full of its misogyny and hatred towards women, doesn’t help. The vilification of victims in the media makes me feel even smaller. the internalisation of misogyny, undermining my own pain because of my body’s “crimes” doesn’t help either.

my voice sometimes doesn’t feel like my own. my body never feels like it belongs to me. all this activism and anger and pain and I still can’t shake the feeling.

I worry about other girls. I worry about their voices being stolen not only by their abusers, or society but also by themselves.

Kim Addonizio, from ‘Blues for Roberto’, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems

I so want to be in bed with you right now, watching the office, wishing pam and jim together. main characters in our own love story, finding magic in even the most normal of places. my head on your shoulder and your hand on my thigh. sighing because god, isn’t this just the stuff of fairytales. aren’t afternoons spent in bed with your lover just inherently magical.

we kiss and we laugh and we get toast crumbs all over the pillowcase. everything I’ve ever wanted is here. everything I’ve ever wanted is you.

“You are not real. You are a dream of a dream.”

— Henry Miller, from Dear, Dear Brenda: The Love Letters Of Henry Miller to Brenda Venus (via violentwavesofemotion)

yeah i know u miss me it’s pretty hard to forget an angel

“You once told me that the human eye is god’s loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel

classycreeps

it’s a sweet little fantasy. the way life runs it’s fingers through my hair and tells me that good things come in threes. the way she tells me cooking is a form of love, that sunday mornings spent in bed is time well spent. that food from my home is the best I can get, all those spices and sweets and freshly baked delights. she tells me that I’ve been working so hard. that this obsession for success is a form of self destruction.

and honestly, I know it is. I know that I destroy myself for a system that could replace me as soon as I falter. but how. how do I find the balance between legacy and enjoyment. how do I hold the little bird between my hands without breaking her wing.

so I wake up early (even on sunday mornings) and force myself to be productive. I order takeout and remind myself to call my mother because I miss the taste of home. I realise the language of my homeland has faded on my tongue. and that I’ve spent so much time outside of the sun that my gold skin has lost its shine.

complacency has made me lose myself.