lost

There’s a fine line between being protective of your inner peace and being a slave to paranoia

I don’t know where I stand when it comes to it.

I trust no one to love me, me who is fiercely delicate

Picturesquely so, one might say.

I trust no one, and I might as well love no one, no one but myself.

I have gaps in my memory from times when I only thought about not being here,

refusing to exist…

pseudodementia, a case of hysteria, what else can i call it ?

An episode of over analyzing the flaws of a society that thrive on any imbalanced power dynamic.

The clock is ticking…

Tick. Tick. Tick.

That’s my biological clock, or so i was told.

I prefer to think of it as a ticking time bomb…

It’ll explode one day and there will be another piece of my soul out in the world

Just like this one is out under the name of sarcasm.

I will love it unrealistically, maybe the way my mother loves me.

love it so much; enough to sacrifice my life.

And it’ll mean nothing, at least nothing more than what was expected

As a young girl i used to get reprimanded every time i was sincere about how I feel

I started to accumulate half chewed thoughts left them in my mouth overnight then swallowed.

Disgustingly rotten…

I felt less real as time went by, and so I learned spit those thoughts and sculpture them into more admirable statues

Then painted a raw authentic layer of what i think of myself as now all over them, just so they don’t look fake.

Ending up with a form of art that is an acquired taste…

But the thing is: i had all my life to adapt to it to myself, and all the feminine rage in me.

•Quotes: Stephen Dunn/ Fyodor Dostoevsky/ Kate Jacobs/Marina Tsvetaeva/ richard siken/richard siken/ Margaret Atwood/ Sylvia Plath/ an excerpt from "Elektra,' Sophocles (translated by Anne Carson)

•Original context: sinligh

•Art reference:

According to my mother i started saying “i love you” when i was barely 3 years old. Mostly when it was bedtime i think I confused it with “goodbye” or maybe with “I really wanna see you when I wake up again”.

I still do, love confuses me or maybe i confuse it ?

Love…

Endearing in its ideation, Infuriating however it falls on the human race.

I’m not good with love, nor in love and I doubt i can be around it.

I admire it, i do. I think about it, I write about it

But I’m never in the same page with myself when it comes to it. So we came to an agreement: one rule : never reach out to touch.

I’m lovable, that much I know…

But my love is only a reaction that’s is equal in force to the curse of my existence…

And so is my creativity, the restriction of my melancholy.

My spilled poems… my aborted children don’t resent me dear ones, i had no choice, but to give birth.

I have no rights.

Do you still want to talk about love ?

Once, i asked my mother. "Mama, do you remember what was the first thing you said to me when I was born?"

She said “you're going to be so loved”.

I think she cursed me with love…

•••

•Quotes: Fyodor Dostoevsky/Friedrich Nietzsche/Jean Rhys/ Maya Angelo /Franz kafka/ Louis Tomlinson/Albert Camus/ Michael Ondaatje/Louis Tomlinson/ Anne Sexton.

•Original context: Sinligh

•Art reference:

home is the first grave

@filmnoirsbian x (from @willemdafoegf 's post // catherine lacey // chen chen // silas denver melvin // aloha from hell, richard kadrey // courtney love prays to oregon // @heavensghost // st. lucy’s home for girl’s raised by wolves // x // taylor swift’s “my tears ricochet” // this post @ceemetery