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Literature Text
so im coming to terms with the fact that i dont like myself that much right now and i know that sounds dumb but just hear me out
sticky notes arent that good at listening
when you were around i hated myself a lot and i think its hard to realise but you werent good for me and i wasnt good for you we encouraged each other in all the wrong directions and i know i miss you and i know you dont think unkindly of me and i know when it was real it was good but
for a while i tried to force self love except it doesnt work like that and all i did was break my headlights trying to turn up the brightness and im on my way to the repair store but a car is fucking heavy to drag along a road that doesnt want you on its surface
i unfollowed you on social media and i think thats supposed to mean something but it didnt it just happened in a sudden vomit of i dont want to hear about your dead dog who used to put her paws up on my shoulders and nuzzle my cheek and i dont want to see your status updates with grammatical errors and content issues because in the end you werent good enough for me probably even though i dont know that yet
the thing is we werent ever really sad we were just there we were just people
so basically what im trying to tell you is that your life is more than a cosmic ant that contributes to a balance youre blind to
youre more than a six-second video or a suitcase or some catchphrase off the front of a herbal shampoo bottle and i have to believe that for you if you cant do it for yourself
i dont know whos going to believe it for me
sticky notes arent that good at listening
when you were around i hated myself a lot and i think its hard to realise but you werent good for me and i wasnt good for you we encouraged each other in all the wrong directions and i know i miss you and i know you dont think unkindly of me and i know when it was real it was good but
for a while i tried to force self love except it doesnt work like that and all i did was break my headlights trying to turn up the brightness and im on my way to the repair store but a car is fucking heavy to drag along a road that doesnt want you on its surface
i unfollowed you on social media and i think thats supposed to mean something but it didnt it just happened in a sudden vomit of i dont want to hear about your dead dog who used to put her paws up on my shoulders and nuzzle my cheek and i dont want to see your status updates with grammatical errors and content issues because in the end you werent good enough for me probably even though i dont know that yet
the thing is we werent ever really sad we were just there we were just people
so basically what im trying to tell you is that your life is more than a cosmic ant that contributes to a balance youre blind to
youre more than a six-second video or a suitcase or some catchphrase off the front of a herbal shampoo bottle and i have to believe that for you if you cant do it for yourself
i dont know whos going to believe it for me
Literature
wondertow
perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.
When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Literature
AA
I want you to know what I was doing on November the 5th, but we don’t have time. It is January; it has been two years. It's quite an old thing to rehash, especially when the pen is so cold. This poem can’t go on long so we’re going to get to the point. I used to write about shamans, priests come to undress me, but things are more direct now. They don’t say how, they say why. . I watched a woman in the AA meeting cry her eyes out. Her tears put out her cigarette, and her back curled, bending forward over herself - wilted, a flower. And when it came my turn I was so scared to drop my old, hole-y petals I left my chair, left the community center, left the Jeep, even, and walked down to the harbor to watch the moon rise. He’s always been so nice; he’s always been so gentle with my chubby-cheek insecurities and my six-toe peculiarities. He nodded along when I mouthed my secrets to the sand and when I couldn’t get out of the house, to the mouse behind my dresser. I’ve written novels
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in other news i wrote this in a hospital bed at 7:30am
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Comments8
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it's been a while since i added this on my "to comment on" folder but i must say this is just...i can't even describe how it makes me feel but i get it. i understand it.