crash. boom. bangg.

Years away now. Years my life without you near. Years in solitude and just like that you came back into my life. No signs, no hunch. No sting in your gut trying to tell you this is the day. This is the day you’re going to again meet the love of your life. You got rid of him and now the universe is giving you a second chance.

What have I done? I set you free. I have set you free.

for a thousand more.

When you proposed you didn’t have a ring, and it was not pancakes, it was eggs. It was not fairytale-like or slow paced romantic. It was late morning and you smelled like penicillin. Your hair was crazy curls and you hadn’t shaved for like a week. You blurted, “what if you changed your name into Mrs.C.” I was stunned, offended, my eggs burnt. I said you can’t say things like that, smelling like that, looking like that. First take a shower, get a ring, and ask on bended knee. You said nonchalantly: my knees hurt.

strings.

Sometimes I felt that there was something physical connecting us, a long rope that stretched between Boston and Portland: when she tugged on her end, I felt it on mine. Wherever she went, wherever I went, there it would be, that shining twined string that stretched and pulled but never broke, our every movement reminding us of what we would never have again.

Hanya Yanagihara

the light.

Jeanette Winterson

neither.

… 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.

so much.

you have no idea how much.

lighthouse.

a flicker in your eyes that tells everyone in the room that i am more than just.

those blues you sang.

from here.

someday. (4)

keep going when you’re on a high…

circa.

you wouldn’t let me help you with anything.

you wouldn’t let me help you with your shoes. instead, you asked me to warm up the car and wait there. i felt like a burden already, something you carried on your fractured spine, just to keep certain things intact, complete, a whole, and not falling apart.

when you finally climbed your jeep, you wanted to make sure that i was okay, that i didn’t have to drive you. you said you were fine and you’d be home right before supper. i said i was okay driving you with so much air in my mouth that i wasn’t sure you heard.

you looked at me smiling, and said nothing else for the rest of the drive.

i remember that one time you were this silent, we too were in a long drive home from your parents’ house. we had dinner with your family. you were great with them. you played Christmas songs on the piano and they sang to them. from the outside in, it was beautiful, like a lifetime movie. you finally brought home a girl they liked and you were nothing but loving and kind. you brought laughter into that house.

but the drive home was long and silent. it’s too quiet even with the radio on. there was commotion on the street, i tried to see what happened, but when i looked at you, see if you see what i saw, your eyes were icy glass, staring straight at the road ahead as if it’s our future in front of you, and you need to be extra careful.

i said, i love you.

i meant to comfort you but i guess i was trying to comfort me, too.

you turned slowly and smiled at me, you didn’t say a thing.

but i could hear it. i could hear what you were saying: i have only this life, sometimes it doesn’t even belong to me, that life.

youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers…

by hermysticvibes

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

PTSD

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.