i know girls who are trying to fit into the social norm like squeezing into last year’s prom dress. i know girls who are low rise, mac eyeshadow, and binge drinking i know girls that wonder if they’re disaster and sexy enough to fit in. i know girls who are fleeing bombs from the mosques of their skin playing russian roulette with death; it’s never easy to accept that our bodies are fallible and flawed. but when do we draw the line? when the knife hits the skin? isn’t it the same thing as purging, because we’re so obsessed with death, some women just have more guts than others the funny thing is women like us don’t shoot we swallow pills, still wanting to be beautiful at the morgue, still proceeding to put on make-up, still hoping that the mortician finds us sexy and attractive we might as well be buried with our shoes, and handbags and scarves, girls we flirt with death everytime we etch a new tally mark into our skin. i know how to split my wrists like a battlefield too but the time has come for us to reclaim our bodies our bodies deserve more than to be war-torn and collateral, offering this fuckdom as a pathetic means to say, “i only know how to exist when i’m wanted” girls like us are hardly ever wanted you know we’re used up and sad and drunk and perpetually waiting by the phone for someone to pick up and tell us that we did good You did good. ( i know i am because i said am, my body is home) so try this take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them touched them because the light was pretty on them and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did touch yourself with a purpose your body is the most beautiful royal fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore are not your razor, no put the sharpness back lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin i once touched a tree with charred limbs the stump was still breathing but the tops were just ashy remains, i wonder what it’s like to come back from that sometimes i feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things i’ve ever seen. love your body the way your mother loved your baby feet and brother, arm wrapping shoulders, and remember, this is important: you are worth more than who you fuck you are worth more than a waistline you are worth more than any naked body could proclaim in the shadows, more than a man’s whim or your father’s mistake you are no less valuable as a size 16, than a size 4 you are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C, your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood; wisdom you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out: reborn
People don’t wanna be compared to the teenage girl; the teenage girl is hated, teenage girls hate themselves. If you listen to a certain kind of music, or if you express your emotions in a certain kind of way, if you self harm, you write diaries, all those kind of activities are sort of laughed at and ridiculed because they’re associated with being a teenage girl. Even just things like being cripplingly self conscious or overly concerned with our appearance, that’s considered like a teenage girl thing and therefore its ridiculous, it’s stupid, it’s not relevant or legitimate, and you know, what we needed at that age was legitimisation and respect and support but all we got was dismissal and “oh you’re such a teenage girl.
I may be basically good, human, loving, but I am also more than that, imaginatively dual, complex, an illusionist. I only feel close to people who arouse my energy, who make enormous demands of me, who are capable of enriching me with experience, pain, people who do not doubt my courage, or my toughness. People who do not believe me naive or innocent, but who challenge my keenest wisdom, who have the courage to treat me like a woman in spite of the fact that they are aware of my vulnerability.
We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography — to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.
I actually attack the concept of happiness. The idea that - I don’t mind people being happy - but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It’s a really odd thing that we’re now seeing people saying “write down 3 things that made you happy today before you go to sleep”, and “cheer up” and “happiness is our birthright” and so on. We’re kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position - it’s rubbish. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say “Quick! Move on! Cheer up!” I’d like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word “happiness” and to replace it with the word “wholeness”. Ask yourself “is this contributing to my wholeness?” and if you’re having a bad day, it is.
I used to love everyone. Absolutely everyone. And it was so private and intense, and my heart broke every time I saw someone slowly ruin himself or herself. They would let sadness in without any resistance, and they would make choices that they knew would hurt them in order to feel alive. I used to find everyone so endearing, with humanity just leaking out of them with every gesture. I was highly perceptive of everyone around me, and as we all got older, that gift became a curse. I gave myself away to everyone I met, thinking they needed my heart for themselves more than I needed to hold onto it. No one would understand that now. They probably think I’ve always been cold and closed-off, that I would never understand affection or pain, and it simply isn’t true. Through the years, I became a hollowed-out version of who I was, and now I understand every emotion better than they’ll ever know. I just can’t experience it with them. I’ve been numb for years now, and it’s because I used to be more human than you’ll ever grasp.
When you want to fall — fall.
Evaporate and condensate,
but when you rain, come down
as a fucking hurricane.
If the birds stop chirping, if the sunlight forgets
you, if you’ve got your shirttail caught in the fence
of your spine, and you have no way of getting
remember that I am here, that I will bail you out of
your own prison, that I will lay with you the morning after
you fall in love and tell you that it’s okay to love,
that it’s okay to trust another human being
with more than you knew you could.
I will tell you how I held you as a child, listened
to your heartbeat on those sleepless nights, that I
loved your small body and your pebble fists and blessed
the skeleton inside of you —
that you are not beautiful because
a boy tells you so, but beautiful because
And I apologize for giving you such nervous hands and
a sine wave heartbeat. And when you start putting question marks
after everything you say — know that
I may not always have the answers, but
together, we can try to make sense
of it all.
I’ll take you back to my West Virginia. My Gloucester. My
honeysuckles and tool sheds. The chicken coops. The abandoned
loves. I’ll show you what the August grass feels like. I’ll
distract you with tree roots, with atlases, with lessons about the
sea, and until your question marks are bent into
arrows, I will not
stop. So shoot them blindly. Hurt and be hurt. Be the bird
as much as you are the hand.
For I will stand behind you, breaking every vow that I made
to protect you. When I notice your wings are peeking out
from beneath your shirt collar, I’ll
tie my hands back from clipping them. I will hide every rope
in the country so that the love inside of me doesn’t
tether your ankles to home.
You are seventeen, and you are free.
But when you want to come home, I’ll be here.
In the wind chimes, in the small moths that flutter
towards your light, in the way dawn still breaks the same
blue eggs in every place that you decide to
I’ll be here.
Less a ghost than the wind.
Less the wind than a soft hum in the back of your
throat, telling you that it’s okay to sing, that it’s
okay to bray,
that your song is a song that you’ll spend
the rest of your life trying to understand.
That when the birds talk you into flying south, it’s okay
to pick up
—"To My Daughter At Seventeen," Shinji Moon (via commovente)
This is a poem about
how you never get what you want
when you want it.
About how you’ll fall in love
for the first time
and he’ll smother you
but you’ll want him again and again
and outside and under
and everywhere in between your limbs
because without him all you feel
This is a promise.
You won’t always feel like this.
He’ll become a memory. He will no longer
look at you as the place he goes
to feel something when he gets lonely.
Your body will never forget him
or the way he held you softly, pressing his fingertips
into the small of your back,
but my dear girl, you have to remember
to walk away when the time comes.
This is another promise.
You will fall in love more than once.
Never forget that.
The man that you will marry
will come into your life unannounced
and mostly likely unwelcome. He will
have eyes that leave you breathless
and hands that make you want to write poetry.
Let him leave you breathless.
Write him a poem or two.
This is a mirror.
You are doing the best you can
with what you have
and you’re damn beautiful
if you ask me.
Maybe I don’t want to relate to you. Maybe I don’t want you to say “I have felt the same way before.”
Here’s a little fact about me: I like being alone. I like being by myself.
Here’s another fact: Sometimes I don’t want to be cheered up. Sometimes I just want to feel exactly what I’m feeling and I don’t want anyone to intervene.
I don’t want other people to relate to me. I want to feel my own things, not things that have been felt a million times before.
I am suffocating, breathing in old, recycled air. These words have been said before. These feelings have been felt before. What I want is something in this life that can be mine and no one else’s. I don’t care if that’s selfish. Let me be selfish.
I woke up this morning
and wiped your remnants
from the corners of my eyes
there’s a girl on her knees
in her boyfriend’s bedroom
right across the street
there’s a girl holding her stomach
and her chest and her breath
two doors down from me.
there’s a girl fighting back tears
screaming into a pillow and
watching herself bleed.
you’re still not here.
but you follow me in different people
everywhere I go.
Please believe me when I say
I don’t want to be you anymore.