take the wheel.

when i was little i was recklessly assuming i would grow up and life wouldn’t be overwhelming and anymore emotionally taxing.

i now desperately in need of cliches.

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.

daisy and jay.

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.

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