your right hand / choking bottles like a songbird; sometimes hopelessness is a lie / feeding your sparrows to the dusk.
“Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”
— I Know What You Think of Me, Tim Kreider for the New York Times
[looks into the camera as I’m being punished for my hubris]
me: *gets touched by random wave of sadness*
me: so, this is what poets of Romanticism felt
I bind and unbind my own.
You exude a noontime
of honey: a noon.
— Miguel Hernández, tr. by Robert Bly, from The Selected Poems; “To Sing,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
To be a self-sustaining woman. To be a candid woman. To be an aware woman. To be a private woman. To be a woman for no one other than myself.