words. hearts. secrets.
i think a lot about your eyes
…and how painful it is to be
in a room full of people with such
empty pockets and words that are
so heavy i cannot lift them from
the fog.
you are the greatest secret
if i could i would hold you between
my hands like morning.
Let’s keep this love a secret. Let’s forget all about it and pretend it never happened. And years from now you can smile that smile that did me in years ago and I will let you sweep me off my feet and under the rug once again.
Crumbs, Diana Perry
… 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.
someone asked me what home was and all i could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
EE Cummings
i want to do with you what spring does to the cherry trees.
Pablo Neruda
mumbling over
my own tongue,
so fat and full.
like grapes
never plucked
from the vine.
my tongue is
alcohol spilling;
time drunk and burdensome.
every word tastes like uncertainty.
like tar black midnight
in the quiet afternoon.
truthfully, i just want to say
i love you and
have that be enough.
I dream you still. And there I will be.
You don’t know my name. This is the past. And us is just a butterfly effect that didn’t happen. We are apart and at peace, just as before your eyes met mine, before our hands brushed and our words hushed. Before our secrets born into judging eyes. This is before everything.
And I am telling you this so you will search for me no more.
“I Want These Dreams Inside of Me”, When I My Own Daughter
these stories, they come to me in dreams the first time I fell asleep since they told me you’ve fallen into flatline
I dream you
sometimes in colours, green and oranges, purples and blues, and not bleak nor dark, we are not in the shadows
in these dreams, our children they’re born. they’re not sucked to death, they’re not stillborn nor bled away
they live and we give
names to their innocent loving faces
the eldest has my eyes, her brother has your smile
in these dreams we’re not bitter
we’re not numb from pain
in these dreams you are standing tall
little daughter dances on your devoted steadfast feet
her brother clung to your arms, his head rests on your secure and sturdy shoulder.
he’s falling into another dream.
in these dreams, I dance with you under the chuppah
and you recite a long vow, a song we used to hum
before we went to sleep
about lovers
lost
and again,
found.
On birthdays that are wiser,
maia diaries 