what you thought
when i fell
so many times
(i still blame the shoes).
i hate drunken girls.
i hate me,
sometimes.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
i hate birthdays
what you thought
when i fell
so many times
(i still blame the shoes).
i hate drunken girls.
i hate me,
sometimes.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
bittersweet
I can feel change coming on again, stronger than before. It's heating up my veins.
It's the spark in my eyes, the catch in my voice.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Hermetic
Life is so exhausting.
I keep trying to remember the way I used to be, before I was sad and when I was sad and when I was getting better and I can't. What does that mean? I don't know how I see myself anymore. I can't comprehend my emotions and thoughts and actions. I don't know who I am and who people think I am and who I want to be.
When I look in the mirror I can't see my face.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
For now
-If I can, start writing again
-Use Tumblr for personal posts or delete it
-Exercise more
-Eat healthily
-Tell fewer lies
-Allow myself to open up to others
-Try to be kind again
-Consume fewer illicit substances, less often
-Indulge my curiosity
-Care for myself again
I miss writing too much. I miss this blog. I am happier with it.
I'm going to fight for it.
A Simple Act
By Renee Yohe
Wake up. Get up. Untangle myself from the fickle sheets, loosen the drunken grip of desperate dreams. I will not wonder, “What if I had gotten up at ten?” today. The what ifs always frustrate me, they do not propel me forward. Disheveled and unsure, tile like splashes of ice water shocks the un-socked as they carry me. Right, Left, I try to be sure I start on the right foot. It’s like an even number, the right side. I dislike numbers in general, though I specifically find odd numbers abrasive and unacceptable. (Besides, the mere fact that it’s typically stated, “left, right” satisfies me inexplicably every time I step with my right foot first.) Simple pleasures. Or neurotic tendencies. Perhaps both. Open wide, despite the spiteful squint and groan, it’s all in your eyes. Wash the dead away, down the drain, run my fingers through my… tangles. Brush them out, like my mother’s hands down my back raking the knots out, like sewing the hole shut in your favorite shirt refusing to throw it out, like words of compassion putting the fire out. Smiling. Not like baiting a trap and waiting, not like febreezing without cleaning, not like holograms or hallucinations, but like colors that tell the truth. This smile is significant. The time on the clock still has those despicable letters sneering,”a” and “m”. The ache in my chest is still nagging, though only nagging now, losing steam from six hours before. And. That. Is. Glorious. I must remember this moment, this moment makes every other moment less fixed. This, “hurting less” moment affirms the potency in the simple act of waiting. This moment was unfathomable just moments before, was in fact loathed in light of the lesions occupying my heart. Yet, it is here and I am in it and I can imagine others far in the distance where I am radiant, and this is just the faintest scar on my healthy human heart. Don’t be fooled by seconds that sprawl, choose instead to wake up tomorrow, and the next day that follows, and wait for a smile that leaves your old sorrow forgotten in dust. Please keep waking up.
Wake up. Get up. Untangle myself from the fickle sheets, loosen the drunken grip of desperate dreams. I will not wonder, “What if I had gotten up at ten?” today. The what ifs always frustrate me, they do not propel me forward. Disheveled and unsure, tile like splashes of ice water shocks the un-socked as they carry me. Right, Left, I try to be sure I start on the right foot. It’s like an even number, the right side. I dislike numbers in general, though I specifically find odd numbers abrasive and unacceptable. (Besides, the mere fact that it’s typically stated, “left, right” satisfies me inexplicably every time I step with my right foot first.) Simple pleasures. Or neurotic tendencies. Perhaps both. Open wide, despite the spiteful squint and groan, it’s all in your eyes. Wash the dead away, down the drain, run my fingers through my… tangles. Brush them out, like my mother’s hands down my back raking the knots out, like sewing the hole shut in your favorite shirt refusing to throw it out, like words of compassion putting the fire out. Smiling. Not like baiting a trap and waiting, not like febreezing without cleaning, not like holograms or hallucinations, but like colors that tell the truth. This smile is significant. The time on the clock still has those despicable letters sneering,”a” and “m”. The ache in my chest is still nagging, though only nagging now, losing steam from six hours before. And. That. Is. Glorious. I must remember this moment, this moment makes every other moment less fixed. This, “hurting less” moment affirms the potency in the simple act of waiting. This moment was unfathomable just moments before, was in fact loathed in light of the lesions occupying my heart. Yet, it is here and I am in it and I can imagine others far in the distance where I am radiant, and this is just the faintest scar on my healthy human heart. Don’t be fooled by seconds that sprawl, choose instead to wake up tomorrow, and the next day that follows, and wait for a smile that leaves your old sorrow forgotten in dust. Please keep waking up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
