I do not find peace in my melancholy.
My sadness is not serene.
I am bloodthirsty.
i’m off my medication
but i should be on vacation
not long before i give into temptation
flying out west should cure my depression
but depression turns to obsession
obsession turns to confession
a vial of blood on an altar
slowly spilling out finding its way back to me
i know i should go to sleep
but out west is where i should be.
“A man who dominates is a man who does not love. He has a tremendous animal vitality, a force, which conquers. He conquers, people are subjected by him, but he neither loves nor understands. He is just a force and he is filled with his own strength. If he loves at all, it is a force like his own, and so again he loves his own kind of strength, not the other, which is an infiltration. Watch the conqueror well, watch the man or woman who dominates another: he is not the one who loves. The one who loves is the one who is dominated. You love me, and so you cannot dominate me, and I being a woman sought domination. But it is all over now. I see it as an impersonal force, an animal force, which no longer has power over me.”
-A Letter From Anaïs Nin to Henry Miller, Excerpt From “A Literate Passion”.
creature
i long for the sweet fulfilling feeling that is
bearing
and i know that i won’t make it but i’ll do it for them
if we ever meet
i’ll cross the world for you
for your hands to be clean and your feet to be soft
against the ground that i have paved just for you
your world will be my world
and i’ll sew the stars together for you
so you will know which way to go
you’ll have my eyes and a few of my quirks
biting the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking a lot about something
twirling your hair when you’re stressed
maybe i’ll introduce you to my favorite music and learn songs with you
i’ll nurture your creative side when you’re young so you don’t have to wander like i did for years
i’ll give you the freedom to feel everything
in a safe shell
-Elya
i never see him sober. after dabs and dabs he’s all over me and wishing he could be inside me like a choir in a church singing and leaving marks in my walls
good things will happen 💫
things that are meant to be will fall into place 💫
“barn owl”
i hold on to everything.
a letter, a wing, the newspaper clipping reading “Saviour’s Day” i found in the grass in virginia.
pinned to the wall, taped in a journal. collecting weapons for a war that’s always coming.
there will always be something else to kill.
did you feel it, when i picked the skin from my lips?
did it hurt you? it always should, and it never will.
it’s not my problem now. i’m perfect, and powder white. i’m the barn owl, awake at night.
i cry only if i want to, just because it feels good.
the sun rises and healthily i close my eyes.
“A man who dominates is a man who does not love. He has a tremendous animal vitality, a force, which conquers. He conquers, people are subjected by him, but he neither loves nor understands. He is just a force and he is filled with his own strength. If he loves at all, it is a force like his own, and so again he loves his own kind of strength, not the other, which is an infiltration. Watch the conqueror well, watch the man or woman who dominates another: he is not the one who loves. The one who loves is the one who is dominated. You love me, and so you cannot dominate me, and I being a woman sought domination. But it is all over now. I see it as an impersonal force, an animal force, which no longer has power over me.”
-A Letter From Anaïs Nin to Henry Miller, Excerpt From “A Literate Passion”.
jesus didn’t die for your sins
you die for your own.
you paid all of your debts
but you cannot go home.
the father cursed the skirt for being short.
the mother cursed him for staring.
then cursed you, the competition.
the teacher kept your seat close to the board.
in hindsight, kept you closer to his desk.
the pastor brushed his hands against your back.
this is life in reparation.
very curious seeing writing i did on here (when i was a teenager) having such a resurgence ten years later. makes me wonder how i will feel about my writing from now, when i am 10 years older. do you ever read something you wrote when you were younger and feel like it belongs to a stranger? i could shudder and shrink when i read it, and judge the work of a different version of me based on the standards to which i hold THIS version of me. but i think i will choose not to, and instead choose to commend my younger self for being brave enough to try. ultimately that journey is what got me here, no?
winter has come once again to teach me things i don’t want to know about myself
