Even in my sleep,
you’re finding the letters
I wrote you,
and even in my sleep
you’re writing back to someone else instead.
If it helps,
I’m still writing
to the light you left behind.
I still let it sit inside of me all day
until my body can’t take it anymore.
You’re my favorite headache
to call my mother about,
and I talk about the dizzy so much,
I almost can’t believe there’s
any of it left to haunt me.
While it happens,
my body dances to the sound
of my own heart breaking.
While it happens,
my hands unfold into flying kites.
I finally need something else to reach for,
but you’re like a disease that comes back to me,
growing and growing
until I almost become it.
Until I almost don’t know anything else.
Y.Z, my body is a disappearing act that doesn’t know where to go (via rustyvoices)
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.
God called me Fish Heart. Lily Mouth. I was an evening sort of girl. He liked me better ripped up, bar bathrooms, bar peanuts, skip the small talk. We’re both Adam. We’re both Eve. In the mornings, swallowing bait, swallowing nails, pulling apart the microwave, two forks and an empty socket. Baby, there is always a limit. Hours spent rubbing my belly, waiting for watermelon trees, or orange bushes, or flowers heavy with green apples. And now, this is what I can dissect: his fingers in the gut of the fish, his fingers in the core of the flower, always pulling. Like it wasn’t enough to feel, like He had to see, to know.
Isn’t it funny. I’m enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that’s something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It’s hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.