words. hearts. secrets.
there’s no point (anymore) chasing the closure you want . the closure you deserve is never going to happen. there will be no better endings, they just are.
When you are living in a house where guilt is alive, it leaves a mark.
And when you are living in an atmosphere of daily, ever-present guilt, what does that do to children? It changes their souls.
Molly Shannon
feels like daisy
and you, Jay
maybe Francis
and i, Zelda
did we not drift onto
a strand
and a simple thing
called time
when it ticks
where you don’t belong.
and it keeps ticking
as i run along.
today i mourn for the things i never get to explain, left unsaid, silenced under pressure. i wish i don’t remember them so vividly.
i love it when days go dark and rainy. it’s like somebody up there push a pause button and we’re allowed to mourn at once for whatever it was that we lost on our way to here.
… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.
… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.
read more here.
i wish i were a goldfish. i forget things but not ones that destroy me.
you have no idea how much.
a flicker in your eyes that tells everyone in the room that i am more than just.
keep going when you’re on a high…
my heart is hurting all the time, all the time i’m carrying what’s not even weighing me anymore.
growing up i’d been depressed, hopeless, unaware i was raised abusively thus often mistaken abuse for love. it wasn’t always physical, although it many a time involved violence. i wiped it off, brush it off, renarrate, deconstruct, reconstruct but never the feeling of shame and an abundance of guilt for being simply me. i had questions answered with humiliation. my intelligence was responded with punishment if not embarrassment. it took years for me to realise, i was different. i was ahead of my time. i was in a wrong place, with wrong people. i haven’t found my people.
only by physical distance the pain and burden of being blamed was less intense, but i since long ago have always been aware it will never disappear. i am forever a wounded animal, born to bear resentments of who they were and what they could not achieve on their own, making it easy for people to walk all over me and have no concepts of setting boundaries.
“All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”—-Mitch Albom
To me it’s the early mornings that lingered, longer than they should, when I groped and grabbed and nothing. It’s an empty bed, you weren’t there and I let you. I let you be alone, in another room, in the bathroom, the living room, sometimes in the basement, lying near the laundry pile, vomiting. It’s more practical there, you said. You grabbed a sheet, puked, and crawled to the washing machine and threw the wet sheet in. I would never know, for in the afternoon they would be minty fresh laundry. I’d just pick it up and went on with my day.
You never asked me how I felt. Lying there in the dark, I too, alone and torn. Desperate, frustrated, for you to share your pain. But it’s yours, not mine, you said. It’s not for me to take. I wished I had been more understanding than I already were. In my mind I would be more than a lover, I would be something closer, deeper, more meaningful than a companion. But it’s yours, and not mine to take. So I lay there sinking within a surge of my own pain.
Sometimes in the afternoon, when I slowly open the lid of your dryer, I forgot to breathe, for it was not yellow stain on the sheet, but dried up brownish blood. I tried not to wonder. Because it’s yours, and not mine to take.
there was a time when
everything was everything and
we didn’t try to be anything
what do you carry around all day
besides a bucket of flowers
and heart full of promises of a new day?
here’s a tiny sting of guilt to share
there there, i’ve been there
nobody likes anybody in this town
forgive me i didn’t know better
“…there are clouds in these dreams and i am flying hard between ashes,
did you not get burned at stakes?
there are words in these dreams but I am not one saying them,
to swallow alone is pain. to breathe, a sin.
not one word out but here are letters for when you wake up,
she said, you will tell them how to say it out loud,
even with tears in their eyes. tell them.
and so I write.”
Get this book here.
maia diaries 