you have been dissociating straining ________ against bonds that feel too tight for the soul you were given, the weight of your heart plunging straight to the bottom of the ocean when you only want to be among the stars (a light that is hard to see, hard ___________ to care about)
you take a breath and try to swim but the ocean ________ is inside your lungs and there are too ___________ many ________________ drops to ever cough them up
— April 1, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
memes teach statistics better than any class you ever received, the concept of spiders so creepy you pay attention, but so ridiculous you can gloss it over, the information getting in beyond filters and applied over and over and over in new concepts until you understand outliers are not to be counted, lest they skew the data in the wrong direction
(you know this is how brainwashing works; they tell you half truths until you cannot tell)
you read it over and over and over until you can tell yourself: 'everyone wants you dead' factoid is a statistical error. your mother, who has been trying to kill you since before you were born is an outlier that should not have been counted
— April 2, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
idealism is a trophy case, passed down from culture to capes, from church to followers, from mother to daughter and you do not understand why you should save them why trophies labeled with pretty words should fill up your ribs and crowd out the dolls you have collected that represent Yours, your skull etched with words you should fight for but you cut your tongue on their jagged edges because nobody ever told you those pretty words mean hurting somebody no matter how good those words are supposed to be
— April 3, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
control, noun: the power to influence or direct people's behaviour or the course of events.
you grip tight to those you love, mine rolling off your tongue with every drop of blood your nails draw when it's too tight, pointing out paths unseen and comparing them to roads too roughly travelled, giving tools and warnings (watch the rock to your right, it has my blood on it and I do not want it to collect yours)
control, verb: determine the behaviour or supervise the running of
you know you should not tell them what path to walk but that gives them no right for them to do the same for you, titles dodged because how dare you tell me where to go, hands fisted around nothing since that path is one you have chosen to walk alone, nails digging into your own palms and
i know the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, but you entered that pact with somebody else and besides you know i'm not religious
— April 4, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
some people's walls are a shrine to their ideals their values and jokes they only care about enough to share even if they're not 100% right; it's an inherently selfish thing, scraps of parts of your identity plastered up where the world can see them, where you can set your focus and it is hard to forget how walls were used in your house. every space dedicated to the future, the present, the collection of perfect you wanted your life to be. ideals plastered where they could be given attention but otherwise forgotten lest you dream too much— just never forget your dreams were perfect because god only gave you everything just right and if it wasn't perfect it wasn't worth accepting even if a friend request came out of the blue and you are too in love to care
the problem with walls is you can spend so long staring at them you forget that not everything there is true
— April 5, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
you wake up and your inbox is a constant reminder of everything wrong in your life; assigning tasks in monotone, the space too easy to forget why it is you collect a cheque. the house is a mess because it is all too much and you know there is no escape, every job will have parts you hate and every project has boring parts, the metaphor not lost on you. to make one step is to make dozens and they all feel too big because one step is never just one, instead it is a snowball on a hill and gravity will do the rest except you are not pushing
you are standing in its path and even though you can swim, you do not know if you can keep up with an avalanche
— April 6, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
everyone knows fight or flight— fight, keep going, keep pouring energy into pushing forward, escaping; flight, running, getting away, escaping. everything about finding a way out, about finding a path that maybe would be safe this time
but those are only if you believe there is a scrap of dignity left. if the end is inevitable, then best to freeze and face it painlessly
— April 7, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
a ritual: throw the stone that reminds you of your mother off the bridge and into the river instead of what else you wanted to go in the water; take the impulse with it. tell yourself you are never going back there again. remind yourself you are never going back there again, until every cell in your body is crying about how there never was a safety net and you have not removed anything
a ritual: draw a bath and turn the water black with a bath bomb called secret arts and remind yourself you were born in water you can be reborn there, too
— April 8, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
you do not know if your fever sweats are stress, sickness, or both. you keep telling yourself you have so much to unlearn and yet
you know, logically, everything she threw at you was a projection but hearing she didn't let you care for others because it meant you weren't giving her what she felt entitled to sends you back back. back. back. you try to forget what a flashback feels like because every time it takes your breath away and
you are sitting in your computer chair hearing about how you should charge for caring about others. you are sitting in your computer chair hearing about how you should never get too close because then they will see who you are with her and it isn't pleasant to be around you. you are hearing everything she deserves for what she has given up for you and
you tell your friends you are replaceable a cog in a wheel that turns a machine mass produced, everyone like this enough your own perspective doesn't matter and
you make a list of everything she has done for you and stare at its starkness, everything a cog in a wheel where nobody saw you, a mirrorless house where you never see your own reflection, Mulan playing in the background and there is a lump at your throat but you don't know why
you ask if this is where your words come from your friend replies "probably"
you do not know if fever is anxiety, sickness or poison bleeding out
— April 9, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
there is a twisted relief you feel at not waking up so early you see dawn. everyone told you as a teenager how early morning was the most productive time, the time when you beat the world (funny how everyone seems to start so early, how are you truly winning)
the world is a monochrome of too harsh white and hospital blue an attempt at purity for a soul painted black by the night
— April 10, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
horror is not an emotion you deal with particularly well. you trip over the steps it takes to get there, working backwards from i care about what you think to why did i do something i knew would hurt you, waiting for repercussions you know are coming, you know better an echo that never seems to stop
— April 11, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
i wish i could make this funny, dry wit punctuating morbidity, something light in what is otherwise a sea of protest signs and hellfire. but twenty five years of hearing the same has worn down every ounce of sympathy until all i am left with is asking why you have decided god's will looks like a series of do not enter signs, at best a kind hand reaching out with a cross behind your back to save me and at worst another person on the street because "god doesn't make mistakes" means "our image of you is correct." where ideals are more important than humanity, where loving means ideas over people, where ideas of people rule instead of god and
with all due respect fuck you
— April 12, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
you do not know how to measure what consists of a first kiss.
the first time you ever found somebody who you wanted to press yourself against, you lived a thousand miles apart and you told him, after he typed out a kiss, that this would not be your first because pixels didn't count
(you regret it, now, after he took the the affection he used to give so freely to his grave)
the second time you had somebody in flesh and blood but you also had a request to make it like the kiss you had dreamed about, permissive. a single phrase spoken— forgotten, before she took one too many and you wanted it all to stop
(you now tell anyone that if you have to take medication to be calm enough it isn't the right time)
how can you tell if you have been kissed twice, or never, all because something about it wasn't right enough to call it yours
— April 13, 2018
A writer is a world trapped in a person— Victor Hugo
Ink is blood. Paper is bandages. The wounded press books to their heart to know they're not alone.
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