Bruised purple patterns, limbs of
blackberry smudges from endlessly
exploring new landscapes,
My shoulders are fallen peaches.
Climbing down cliff faces to discover
hidden beaches that belong to memories
of bare feet on pointed rocks and charting
the changing tides.
We flatten the movements of water
through writing the ocean into our verses,
trying to seek out meaning in the swell of
I learn the composition of your frame,
trying to negotiate a way under your skin,
as we continue to discover our bodies
are not all that resilient.
If you look closely you will see that
my joints are wearing down,
and sometimes I get scared of
unsticking all at once.
On a monotonous bus ride through yellow grassland I relearned stillness. Amidst layers of lethargy I uncovered reserves of patience and buoyancy, I woke up a little. The depth of my intuition terrifies me over and over and sometimes it’s so easy to play dumb with yourself. My mother tells me when I was a child my wide eyes absorbed too much of the world around me, drinking up details I had no room for. Now after twenty-two years of collecting, things that were better left alone are embedded within me. After twenty-two years I am only just learning how to let it all out. For the most part these observations course through me in small droplets, unobtrusive and tangible. But they have also settled more firmly in the caverns of my ribcages, they’ve sown themselves across my spine and delicate roots are forming. Some days I feel the weight of certain colors and I long for the pull of the ocean, to sink my toes in cold sand and be tickled by the salty breeze. On those days I need to be horizontal, liberated from the laws of gravity. But I am teaching myself not to splinter so easily, I am building a force-field around me to protect my perforations. I am filtering my vision through soft lavender and silver speckles and each day the process of releasing becomes more simple. Each day less pieces of the world attach themselves to me as though I were made only of adhesive.
— Warsan Shire (via homemayde)
9:57 pm 6,393 notes
My rib cage feels brittle,
my insides pickled,
and it’s got nothing to do
with the stubborn heat.
Everything I’ve known up til now
is losing it’s spine, slouching into
formless irrelevance, malleable
against wide open spaces.
Adrift and disoriented, with
whispers of child-like elation
but internal turbulence always
causes us to wilt so brilliantly.
And all I can do
is sit here amongst you all,
distracted by loud expressions
and shifting intonations,
Trying to pretend there
aren’t more currents,
running through me than
all of you put together
These internal tectonic plates
unmoving and dormant until,
new eyes, a new body, a new environment,
shift parts of us we weren’t even aware of
I’m hurting for reasons that
I’m not brave enough to consider
and none of me is strong enough
to hold together for too long,
I lost time before an unfamiliar mirror
as I disconnected from the outer world,
loving so many neglected parts of myself
and wounding myself with question marks
and wild conjectures
Giving undeserved gravity to
parenthesis, sideways glances
reveries born of the warm summer air
— Anaïs Nin
Today I slept in,
today I made a fresh batch of coffee
and sat on my bedroom floor,
wearing your grey jumper,
half convinced it was holding me together,
drinking my coffee,
thinking of us and
trying to ignore the knots inside me,
trying to breathe and be and trust,
trying to submerge myself in concocted love,
trying to remember to take out the rubbish
and call my mother
and not collapse under the weight of it all
12:49 am 1 note
I only forgot you in the dim blur of the lounge room, the early morning was aglow with movement as we made colorful revolutions to distract ourselves from the disconnect that seeped amongst us. Some time before 4 am, when everything hurt more than it should have, I stood beneath hot water with wine coating my teeth and I cried. Today I’ve been listening to old jazz records, certain that we have ruined this. Today I’ve been listening to nothing at all. Winding myself with surging words, small symphonies, the heaviness we keep in our chests. In the silence I can distinctly recall the uneven notches of your spine, your fingertips encircling my wrists. In the stillness I consider trusting, I consider trying, I consider the ebb and the flow. I think of knowing when to step backwards, when to let go. The craters concealed within us. The ways we wilt and grow.
A sorrow that is not mine has pressed against my sides for seven hours now. The wind whispers wonder and the sky boasts three different shades of orange but all I can see are your welling eyes and your shaking hands and I don’t know how to make any of this better.
I could see it going either way, “I’m falling for you” and just as easily, “this isn’t working” You kept looking over at me in between sips of scotch. Once, twice, three times, a fourth. We didn’t say a thing, of course. I feared your affection as much as I feared your indifference and instead of forming real words, I pressed my lips against the side of your neck, letting unspoken tenderness and question marks seep into your skin.