You wonder why I don’t
answer your 3 a.m. phone calls
When you say “I miss you”,
I begin to undress myself out of habit.
who makes you the happiest but the one who
makes you feel the most, who conducts your heart
to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling
with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in.
It has always been you.
Whenever you had something to say to me,
You’d write me a letter,
Leave it on my pillow and forget to sign it with love.
Whenever you call, I can tell you wish you were talking to my answering machine,
And lately I’ve made a habit to say “I love you mom,”
And hang up quickly.
You remind me weekly to pay my bills,
And you never forget to explain whatever I’m eating,
When I admit I smoke cigarettes, you threaten to disown me,
But when I showed you my wrists,
You pretended not to see.
So I know you love me,
But in a practical way.
I’m emotionally distant, and probably bipolar
‘Cause you never told me how to use a tampon,
I can’t reach out to anyone, because my arms
Don’t remember what it feels like to be held,
So they’re cemented in a constant position of pushing
Playing defense, I even blame you for my lack of athletic ability,
Because it was a hassle to come to my games.
I admit, I started writing this letter a long time ago,
I wrote “dear,” the day of our first fight,
I wrote “mom,” the day you got me married,
I wrote “I hate you,” when you read my diary,
“Get out of my life,” when you called me a liar,
I’m trying to write “come back.”
A hundred times over,
Just in case you can’t find your glasses,
Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me,
Stop calling yourself a bad mother,
Because I’m done throwing knives through telephone lines,
I want to hold you, I want you to get it in your emotional accident,
Your heart, spinning on black ice, spinning out of control,
And you’re in Denver for a month,
And you have to let me take care of you,
I’ll take care of you mom,
I’ll take water to your lips,
I’ll comb your hair,
I’ll read you my favorite poem.
The morphine will make it easy for you
To tell me what you hated about high school,
What you love about gardens,
What it felt like to see my father for the very first time,
I’m sick of waiting at the gates of your garden,
I want to see you blooming,
I want you to tell me what my first word was,
Even though you don’t remember,
I want you to tell me that you never felt better,
Than the first time you brought me home from the hospital
Because it was the first time you were whole,
I want you to tell me all the times you wouldn’t hold my hand,
Because you knew I was pretending to hold,
Our heartbeats up to the sky.
This letter isn’t meant to make you feel bad,
And I’m writing it, consciously knowing that guilt
Runs through your veins like porcelain,
Ready to shatter in your stomach,
Stop saying you regret how you raised me,
Because I don’t regret how you raised me,
All the mistakes we make in life,
Take us somewhere,
Maybe we can meet there someday,
And we can lay together in your garden,
And I’ll tell you things like when I think of my childhood,
I think of your freckles,
And when I think of what a woman is,
I think of your grace,
If the first step to getting there is telling you I love you,
I will carve it in braille on your pillow,
So it’s the first thing you feel in the morning,
I will pull my umbilical cord out of my stomach
And tie it to your wrist,
So when you feel lost you have something to pull on,
Mom, I promise to start walking as soon as I put this pen down,
As long as your promise to realize that a daughter,
Is more than just a noun,
My arms are open and waiting
I’ll walk more than half way,
If you promise,
You will meet me there someday.
This just reduced me to a blubbering mess. Too close to home.
There is a stage in early childhood development
when a baby realizes, for the first time, that
they are not, in fact, part of their mother’s body.
That their heartbeats don’t float together
down the river of her arm or pass each other
like voices along telephone wires….
When he doesn’t want to look at it,
to rest his cheek against my thigh
and peer into the pink tenderness,
to examine where my body becomes
and unbecomes itself, I can only assume
that it is true what they say about God:
it is impossible for man to look upon the face
of the sublime and not be ruined by it.
The splendor would be insufferable. How soft
and quiet it is, where the world begins.
- Sierra DeMulder
Your body is the house you grew up in
How dare you try to burn it to the ground
You are bigger than this
|—||Sierra Demulder (via findingmyrecovery)|
You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.
If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.
Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.
Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.
|—||Julien Smith, The Flinch (via tiredestprincess)|
I pity the woman who will love you when I am done. She will show up to your first date with a dustpan and broom, ready to pick up all the pieces I left you in. She will hear my name so often it will begin to dig holes in her. That is where doubt will grow. She will look at your neck, your thin hips, your mouth, wondering at the way I touched you. She will make you all the promises I did and some I never could. She will hear only the terrible stories. How I drank. How I lied. She will wonder (as I have) how someone as wonderful as you could love a monster like the woman who came before her. Still, she will compete with my ghost. She will understand why you do not look in the back of closets. Why you are afraid of what’s under the bed. She will know every corner of you is haunted by me.
so I’m at a gas station getting RED BULL AND THE GUY INFRONT OF ME IS TRYING TO GET CONDOMS AND HIS CARD GOT FUCKING DECLINED AND THIS LITTLE OLD WOMAN BEHIND ME WHISPEREd “he just got cock blocked by visa” I FUCKING SHAT MYSELF
So go find someone who fucks you right and treats you how you deserve to be treated.
|—||This will always be one of my favorites (via im-simply-me)|