You are impulse. You are stranded inhibition. You are, sometimes, the aftertaste of ecstasy and the curvature of a spine as your lover shifts under you. Let yourself be this. You are no one’s mint condition classic. You touch and you tug and you feel, when you get the urge.
Don’t worry about popular opinion...Don’t worry about the future...Don’t worry about growing up...Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you...Don’t worry about mosquitoes...Don’t worry about disappointments.
Lately I’ve been forgetting,
I’ve been forgetting how words can mimic my heartbeats.
I’ve been forgetting about the wholeness that comes from the ripples that ease out of me as I write. It lifts me up out of stillness. It brings me to life, it gives me flight. It displays itself as a sting that latches itself onto my skin and pulses when the time is right.
It tells me when to take flight.
It eggs me on, telling me I need to soar above these dizzy 8 to 5 shifts in places that don’t feel like home. It tells me that home is the place where in my words flick endlessly and effortlessly and my heart fills up. Home, where my eyes linger on the same syllables for days on end, finally getting them in the right order. I’ve grown so used to this subtle sting that when it calls my name, I listen diligently.
But lately, I’ve been forgetting.
Two months ago, I...
I learned that fear doesn’t always hurt, and grace isn’t always pretty. I learned that sometimes, you need to sink fully into your fear and roll around with it until you are so beat and bruised that the bluing of your scars starts to get lost in the scent of your skin and it combines to form a sticky sweet color that you cant help but love.
Let go of that overpriced, over-hyped dream you like to lounge in, and make room for the parts of you that write with hurt and nostalgia and fear. Hold up these parts and turn them inside out so that the world can feel them and feed them with their own broken parts.