“and it isn’t that i’m so unhappy i don’t want to live anymore. that’s not what it feels like. it feels more like I’m tired and bored and the party’s gone on too long and i want to go home. i feel flat and there doesn’t seem to be anything to look forward to, so i’d rather call it a day.”—nick hornby, about a boy (via scarsandskin)
“The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep at night and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”—Joan Didion, On Keeping a Notebook (via stateomaine)
“They told you to build a home and you made it, didn’t you baby?
You found a boy and wrapped his arms around you. You nestled between his hipbones and called it beautiful.
They never told you to find a place, find a place.
Because when you leave a place that’s your choice. When he leaves, it’s his.”—
I don’t know why they call it fireworks when we kiss. It doesn’t feel like exploding when our lips brush
(my bottom lip always catching on the upturn of your smirk)
It feels like collapsing.
You’ve grabbed c-4 and wrapped it in det cord and with care placed it where my ribs meet to form a home.
There’s a letter pinned to my chest that says ‘darling I promise’. And I say you can’t. Because I’m collapsing with the weight of these holes you’ve formed there.
Do all kisses feel like this? Or was I misreading your foreshadowing for an allusion.
Maybe it wasn’t meant to be fireworks. Maybe it was a warning shot.
I don’t care. I gave you the trigger. You pulled. And that’s the story.”
Let’s be honest here -
I am not the girl men fall in love with.
I am the girl that men want to fuck.
I am a conquest. A prize. A show.
I could count on five hundred fingers
the number of people that have professed,
“I like you. You’re different. You’re an interesting girl.”
Apparently I’m not fascinating enough for you
to want to hold for more than a one night stand.
as I finished swimming a sea of blankets
and got left stranded on the shore,
I asked myself:
What’s wrong with me?
What am I doing?
Am I not good enough for anybody?
And right before I could drown again,
the sun woke up and said,
You are enough.
Forget the men whose hands have groped your hips
in search for answers to questions
you’ve never even heard of.
Do not settle for people who do not appreciate you,
who do not know how lucky they are.
Remember it is a privilege to be loved by you,
or even just
to be touched by you, and
the warmth of another body does not define your worth.
These men -
they think that they can own you
with their drunken stares and roughened arms, but
I have circled the earth
a thousand times
to feed the light flowing inside your skin.
Do not waste it by illuminating those who
can not even be bothered
to learn your last name.”
So that night when
the moon tried once more to pin me down,
I told him:
I am made of sunlight, crashing waves, and fireworks.
You think you can tame me
and cool my flesh?
I am the girl who plays with matches,
and trust me I play it well.
Lord knows I’ve walked through villages leaving
a pile of destruction in my wake.
My heart is a bushfire
and the next time you try to control me,
darling, make no mistake -
“You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”—