this is how I knew, definitively, how little I deserve him, and how lucky I am, and how ridiculously large my capacity to hurt him is: here’s what I said: I feel like you don’t actually love me but that you believe that you do, and I don’t know how to tell you that. and […]
against the beat pull against the music like molasses
how did I go from: flinching at his touch to: enveloping him because I finally made tears fall. I can see now it is possible to comfort someone who has hurt you and feel numb. to bring the hammer down and instantly shush the wreckage back into a whole; I have never seen him as […]
honestly just keeping this here for my academic benefit [excerpt from heidi hartmann’s “the unhappy marriage of marxism and feminism: towards a more progressive union” (1979)]
The mirror asks: how can this be, this bloom that became pity? Stifle, the exhale. This bloom became worry. This bloom became: yield. Willful denial of self, a smidge. Tuck the smile behind the ear and cross the legs. Here: clutches of soil. Thyme. Quiet.
EDIT: After noticing that reading my journals seriously affects my state of mind, for the purposes of future me’s mental health, it’s necessary to preclude this with a note: this is NOT healthy. This is NOT ok. Furthermore, this poem is wallowing in self-pity, self-hatred, and is furthermore self-absorbed, and is perhaps even more damaging […]