braceletinmyleft

[braceletinmyleft]

[braceletinmyleft]

“We often want it so badly that we ruin it before it begins. Overthinking. Fantasizing. Imagining. Expecting. Worrying. Doubting. Just let it naturally evolve”

— Unknown

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Ughhhhh! Yes.

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I dreamt that I was sleeping on a bench in a park.

The fact of which I lived there is uncertain. Then some young people like me got near, and offered me a cake.

They needed help with a project, and I wanted cake.

They wanted to smash part of the cream of the pie in my face,

There was like a little round mountain of cream at the top, but they were so kind to sing happy birthday first, I felt special. And remember the shape of my smile.

Then I gently smashed my face in the cake, and it wasn’t bad…

Now I had cream all over in a shape of a pie and they took me to their school.

I arrived, in what was the middle of the night, but felt like pure daylight inside of those luminescent walls.

I passed classrooms with a painted face of chantillí and people looked me in the eye.

I saw the classrooms and the notes in which there were charts of the cake and the mountain of cream and the smashed cream on else’s face.

They were studying it, for what? -i non sa veramente

They had a cafeteria where they could make their own espresso, and they were hyped of it. For me, i didn’t thought it to be that big a deal, but after spending time there, i felt special.

Maybe the fact of making your own coffee didn’t seem glamorous, why would you want to make it yourself when someone can just make it for you?

But it was about the space we shared, and how home-y it all felt after a while.

I felt good being with the girls, but it was just momentary, and they wouldn’t be my long lasting friends. I always want for love and affection to last forever, or else it makes me feel empty when it’s gone.

They all headed to class after spending time and chatting, and gradually I was left alone, not even noticing when slowly they all flowed. I was there for the next shift, when the caffe now was a cafeteria, and there was demand in the eyes of the students everywhere.

Now the idea of someone making a coffee for me seemed… not as pleasant as it first appeared.

I love glamorous schools, and I always saw myself as a smart hardworking ambitious girl who could have gotten to one of them. But I never did. Is not as my family was wealthy, and in those places if you don’t own the numbers you will never be one of them. You can’t fake the way someone was raised, the way they have that implanted dismorfia and arrogance.

I always have been kind, my heart is full and soft, but my pockets are empty and my bloodline is not wealthy.

I want to be someone of them. And I am importan. Isn’t the subject as important as the researcher? Or at least it must be.

But they all look down on me, like if they smelled my spirit and it was unpleasant all of a sudden.

Their arrogance shuts their eyes and dims their light, but they don’t even notice that they have it.

I guess I’m drawn to them because I too can smell their spirit, full of knowledge and intelligence. And I always what to learn.

But when it all comes down to it, they must think I possess none of which I am drawn to. And that messes with me.

If I didn’t had it in me, I wouldn’t seek out for it. So why do they think is just a one way street? Why do they feel like the top of the world?

Why do I have to go out and access them? Like if there was something else behind those darkened eyes.

I have the universe inside of me, and I see love and I feel the sky and I am connected to the softness. That takes research, and intelligence and acknowledge.

Now I feel silly for saying that aloud.

I go out into the park again and they will continue to have brewed coffee. Who is the winner and who is the loser in this big world?

I don’t even know where the cake go.

[braceletinmyleft]

Fuck my subconscious, that bitch’s insecure.

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Letters and Numbers Found on the Wings of Various Moths and Butterflies.

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— Mary Kate Teske

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They made me cry and I wondered if I made noice when I walked out the door, so aware of the crook.

I made noice with a crystal cup from the hallway and no one came.

I am used to the silence of abandonment and call it stillness.

In the storm, someone will someday come and find me, someone will one day translate my tears and hear the piano in the background of my dripping heart.

I hurt, i alone. But met a ghost to stand behind me, and freed a soul with my gentle caress in the key notes. I used to scream for help.

In a way it was stillness.

In a way I wouldn’t wanted to be alone.

In a way a hug would’ve saved me.

I can’t hug a ghost, and a door can’t cry. And a glass can’t scream. But I did.

All in the name of being a little more tender.

And subsequently healing trough the pain.

I’m so glad I have a home to go home to, and my momma to hug me if I dare to ask.

A place to surrender.

- CARSON

— Silas Melvin

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I fall into the ground when your hands around my ankles get warm. Like force, I couldn’t stay. You made me cry.

— Arthur Miller, The Crucible

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Years of pressure and heat can cause the ink in photos to transfer directly onto plastic, a process known as image bleeding.

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Is he implying to abuse of the drunken girl? Use your hand dumbass! (I’m angry)

sunday night by Raymond Carver

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(“Goth” )

Si dateara un cirujano, mi kink más grande sería que me huciera sentir mis costillas. Y me mataría, porque querría sentí cada partícula de mi carne y sentir la sangre derramar por mi brazo, goteando poco a poco y solo sintiendo,e a mi misma.

I mean- gracias for cutting me open I guess…

I get (got) it from here.

.

.

. Carson, 12:38 oct. 7th

[braceletinmyleft]

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Brontë sound good for me.

when kafka said ‘you wouldn’t believe the kind of person I could become if you wanted it’ and when brontë said ‘if you ever looked at me with what I know is in you, I would be your slave’ and when Sartre said ‘if I’ve got to suffer it may as well be at your hands’

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fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuxk

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love.

-Franz Kafka

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@iwrite-love

@saturn-metaphors

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“For the heart, life is simple: it beats for as long as it can. Then it stops.”― Karl Ove Knausgård, My Struggle 1

Painting: "The Patient" by Vasily Polenov