I’m beginning to know myself. I don’t exist. I’m the space between what I’d like to be and what others made of me. Just let me be at ease and all by myself in my room.
— Fernando Pessoa (via decayingorganicmatter)
Dorothy Parker, “Unfortunate Coincidence”
later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
where does it hurt?
— Warsan Shire (via koiosurya)
I love you and I always will and I am sorry. What a useless word.
— Ernest Hemingway, The Garden Of Eden (via larmoyante)
We found no spirits on earth
or in space
nor comfort in consumption.
Every show unwatched,
I had little to say.
It will be better to starve to death
in some ascetic feat.
Amnesia is not knowing who one is and wanting desperately to find out. Euphoria is not knowing who one is and not caring. Ecstasy is knowing exactly who one is— and still not caring.
— Tom Robbins, Another Roadside Attraction (via indiehappyhour)
When did you realize that you will begin to conceal his name from the other lovers? Was it when you spent your first night together that made its way into a chapbook? Or is it when you unearth the worst of you in a verse of a poem titled “sexpot”? Or when you discovered that in his version of your story, you will only be spread legs and hangovers? Did the shame vanquish the allure, or intensify it even more?
When did you realize that you love him, and swore that you would never leave him? And when you left him, did you blame the words as much as the alcohol? On the good days, how hard did you wish them both away? On the bad days, how hard did you cry and beg for him to change? Did hate become the thing that reminded you most of him, or did you constantly evoke love on your system? Were you ever successful on forgetting him?
During the times that he called, did you confess your love? Did you hear the lonely in his voice? Did you lie? Push the words through your teeth like a hiss?
And you thought that you were the one meant to save him? As you remember the piss on the rug, were doubts formed like women lining up in the restroom? Was there still faith as you clean empty gin bottles for breakfast? Did he call you God when he slapped himself against you? Did you ever think of him as a sinner? Press on nails, break like forgiveness, into the flesh of his shoulders? Was sex your form of remedy for his being, and thought that it could be more addictive than vodka?
Were the lights on when you read his poems while he was sleeping? Ask yourself if that beauty really belonged to him? Try breaking both of you to see where it came from? So did it break you when when the other women came to find him? Hear when they told him what his poems did to them? Watch through a cracked door as he fucked them? Stare as he became a pale fish beneath the lights, swimming in the ocean of their sex? Was this the first, second, tenth time you thought of leaving?
Did you toss his typewriter out the window? Drink all his wine the next morning? Point out his age, his weight, his grayed hair? Tried stopping his destruction? Did his silence burn you like lit kerosene? Did you forget who you are before you had read anything of his that made you feel like you had found home? Forget who you had been before his genius?
When you made your final ultimatum, did you look in his eyes and see tears? When you truly left, did you stop reading for years? Stop going to coffee shops? Avoid libraries? Did you stop buying the papers that published him? Was it like this until one day, you wondered about him, walked into a bookstore and bought "Love is A Dog from Hell" and found yourself on pg. 21 or 196 or 277? Was that the moment you realized how foolish you were to think you would ever be more than spread legs? More than a poem neatly typed up within a book that only reminds you of when you went to Hell and came back?