words. hearts. secrets.
we are a new person everyday. everyday we change in the smallest of things. you can’t hold somebody accountable for who they were the last time you saw them.
…because friendship and intimacy are subjective, and there isn’t a widely used scale researchers share to define those concepts across studies. Closeness can be particularly squishy.
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 wish i could stop being me for fucking two seconds.
the myth is that i can only write about you, and not anything else.
i understand this is not who we are.
how would i explain it with words or otherwise, or to anyone anyhow, the way that i feel and this feeling i have when i’m with you i can’t seem to feel with anybody else.
in the shower i become
knowledgable
of all the wounds i didn’t know i had
scratches from god knows where
i’ve been, a cut
on my calf that wouldn’t heal
purple bruises from last year retreat,
“cooking accident”, did that
fool you, there’s just too many
i can’t explain
some mistakes are permanent
others continue carrying the weight
i know, sorry i broke you, this has been
weighing me too,
do they still hurt because now
i do not feel safe loving
anyone like this ever again
when i think about where i’m coming from i fall into a deep dark abyss with no end in sight.
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
if you hear me pausing in between sentences and stopping before the story ends it is because some stories aren’t to tell—
if you see me ending my words too soon it is because i hear and i hear it loud, hearts are breaking, they don’t mend—
if you’re there when i am changing direction it is because of my generosity to protect every little thing at stake always wins me over—
so forgive me if i’m stopping mid-sentence, i am a living staccato, pausing— never fully realise a full stop—
maia diaries 