#biography poem

[litleheart]

ㅤ ִ sym᤻b᤻ols ׄ ִ

꒰͡ ּ͜ ۪i ͜͡ ꒱ּ۪  ⠏̤░ ᪲ 𔓐ׄ𝜚

ʢ ͡ 𐙚ʡ̩̩͙ ⡴👼🏻᭪

❀ 　 *.　 𝓁𝒾𝓇꯭𝒾ℴ𝓈

◌ ° . 🎀 . * ◌

ִ © ⠀ׂ ִ⠀ by litle᤻h᤻e᤻a᤻rt

[vivienne-sndr-blog]

Do you know why I love you so much?

You saw and reawakened all those good things in me that I had lost and forgotten over the course of my life because of other people. I was able to look at myself... and I found my old self again. I liked your compliments. I felt so special and loved around you I couldn't believed someone seen me like that.

[embeccy]

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched, they must be felt with the heart.

- Helen Keller

[sprixyn]

yesterday, i brushed my teeth for the first time in weeks.

its not like i'm *depressed*, exactly, i just.. forget, y'know?

life is busy, and i'm busy.

and i'm always rushing from place to place.

there's no time to stand around for *two entire minutes* and *focus* on something other than my phone,

focus on something that's boring like self care or whatever the fuck,

focus on something that doesn't take up all my attention

so that

my thoughts

don't

...

i spat into the drain, and

it was a vibrant pink.

i stared for a moment.

i don't know how long.

that happens sometimes.

i just get...

unfocused.

i don't know.

y'know that camera effect they do in movies

where the focus stays the same

and the background gets further away??

it's kinda like that.

okay so i googled it!

apparently it's a "dolly zoom".

sounds wayyyy more fun than it feels, but the gif on the wikipedia page is pretty neat.

anyways. the point is, i zoned out.

staring at the pink splatters on the bright white ceramic.

and then

my eyes

slowly travelled upwards

to the mirror.

i wanted to know

why it was pink, i guess.

and then when i looked in the mirror,

i just didn't

recognize myself?

i swallowed, hard.

my tongue was heavy, and my throat was dry. that was weird, wasn't it?

hadn't i just

had something wet in my mouth?

something

like

...

no, sorry.

something like...

a toothbrush? yeah, a toothbrush.

where did it...?

anyways,

it tastes minty.

it doesn't taste like i just...

and the world zoomed out again, so fast it almost made me nauseous.

and

in the mirror,

it was

me at 16, staring right back at me with dull grey eyes

big shirt and no pants, the little rascal.

fresh scars all over.

must've been hot that day, i guess.

and... it was

holding a pill bottle

and

those

bright pink pills

were

spilled into my hand.

how strange.

the bathroom got far away again.

everything except for the mirror.

and then

it was

me at 12,

frantically bandaging my arm with a blank expression

and tear tracks on my face.

crumpled up tissues all over the place,

the blood and water turning them a lovely shade of pink.

two people were talking outside the bathroom, muffled voices.

were they angry? what were they saying?

i feel scared.

i listened close,

straining my ears

and

before i could think

the bathroom zoomed away again

and

it was

me at 6,

locked into the bathroom

since my door didn't have a lock

and i wanted to be alone

and

i was

crying so hard i couldn't breathe, because

i just didn't understand what i was doing wrong, and

i didnt understand why i was bad, and

that badness made people yell at me, or

why them hugging me hurt, when it was

just because they loved me, and

i was supposed to be grateful, or

why everything was so loud and bright, and

why the clothing i used to like, i just couldn't

wear anymore, because

it was rough and had tags,

but they didn't understand, so i had to

lie and say i just liked leggings, or

why i was

never good at being a girl.

why i was never like the other girls.

and why

i have to try harder, for it to work.

i have to

wear skirts, and

make the right faces, and

be shy, and

sit still, and

follow *all* the rules.

...

even if i

don't understand what the rules are, and

they scare me, and

i just don't understand, i don't

i don't

please, don't

i'm sorry, i don't

i didn't mean to

...

i just didn't make a very good girl, is all. and

there was something else...

oh. right.

my favorite color was green,

but i had to like

the color

pink.

...

.....

.......

and when i wake up on the unforgiving tile floor,

i am cold, and

my ass hurts like all hell.

must've sat on my tailbone, i guess.

my whole body is weak and shaking, and

my stomach feels weird. everything feels pretty weird, honestly.

and my back aches

like i'd been leaning over something all day, or walked a few miles.

i blink.

hard. and

i can see a constellation inside my eyelids.

it's beautiful.

and

i get up, and

i look in the mirror, and

i'm half afraid of what i'll see,

half burning with curiosity.

but

it's just me again.

and

my gums are bleeding.

and

it's pink.

[varnikareads]

A Bookmark Near the End

He loves history. He wanted to write a biography of John Quincy Adams. I, shamefully, knew almost nothing about John Quincy Adams, so I went online and bought every biography of him I could find. One day, he called me, claiming that we wouldn't work out long term. He said he loved me but that we had different interests. "What does love mean to you?" I said. "That's an impossible question," he replied. I, however, find love to be quite simple. Love is the stack of biographies on my nightstand with a bookmark near the end.

- Julia Nicole Camp

[vthanie]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤ ㅤ me faça objeto das suas escolhas, ㅤe eu lhe reduzo aos meus objetivos. ㅤacontece que almejo além do imaginário possível.

ㅤ ㅤ eternaria o teu nome nas estrelas, ㅤse o brilho do teu olhar já não estivesse cravado nelas.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

[pouesie]

𝒞𝑢𝑙𝑝𝑎 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒 𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒐 𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑎𝑜.⠀⠀ ❀᭢᜴꤬ ⠀ ⠀ ⌨️ ⠀ ⠀ 속이는 것

𝒬uero sofrer por ti.

Preciso acordar ao teu lado, dizer que te amo, lhe preparar café, fazer promessas, contar meus segredos, revelar suas verdades, assumir meus pecados, te fazer feliz e ser abandonado.

[empirearchives]

Herman Melville on Napoleon’s love for Ossian

Context: Ossian is the narrator and purported author of a cycle of epic poems published by the Scottish poet James Macpherson, originally as Fingal (1761) and Temora (1763), and later combined under the title The Poems of Ossian.

“I am rejoiced to see Hazlitt speak for Ossian. There is nothing more contemptable in that contemptable man (tho' good poet, in his department) Wordsworth, than his contempt for Ossian. And nothing that more raises my idea of Napoleon than his great admiration for him.—The loneliness of the spirit of Ossian harmonized with the loneliness of the greatness of Napoleon.”

Melville wrote this around 1862 in the margins of his copy of Hazlitt’s Lectures on the English Comic Writers and Lectures on the English Poets

Source: Hershel Parker, Herman Melville: A Biography - Volume 2, p. 436

[drrav3nb]

I never knew that love could be destructive.

[kiwifrowner]

"Once I hit my head on concrete and saw saints, oranges, dizzy blood. My skull almost split like a cleaved fruit. To be taken seriously a woman has to become nothing but a wound."

— Brynne Rebele-Henry, "Self-biography as a false saint" from Autobiography of a Wound

[asurrogateblog]

if jim morrison had lived he and roger waters would be mortal enemies but not because they have nothing in common

[seafoamme]

"Kiss me, and you will see how important I am." - Sylvia Plath, 'The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath"

[embeccy]

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us."

- Helen Keller

[lovingsylvia]

Did you know?

On 10 August 1941, Sylvia Plath published her first poem, titled simply "Poem" on the "Good Sport" page of the Sunday Boston Herald. In the note to the editor, she described the poem as "a short poem about what I see and hear on hot summer nights":

Hear the crickets chirping In the dewy grass Bright little fireflies Twinkle as they pass.

Source: Heather Clark, Red Comet: The Short Life and Blazing Art of Sylvia Plath (2020)

[jonathanmoya1955]

“‘Saturday Night’: A Nostalgic Dive into the Chaos and Comedy of SNL’s Origins”

Sony Pictures Releasing MOVIE INFO: At 11:30pm on October 11, 1975, a ferocious troupe of young comedians and writers changed television — and culture — forever. Directed by Jason Reitman and written by Gil Kenan & Reitman, Saturday Night is based on the true story of what happened behind the scenes in the 90 minutes leading up to the first broadcast of Saturday Night Live. Full of humor,…

[cheshire-castle-library]

Sylvia Plath Annotations Day 2/??

Winter Landscape, with Rooks