#litreture

It’s early summer,

the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.

so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.

it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife

wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?

I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 

I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.

even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology

officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.

i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long

deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother

At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged

Young and brash and an acquired taste.

it’s a poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage

Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:

is it benign or malignant?

is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?

It stays unanswered, an unforced error

because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in the percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow

a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.

•••

•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin

•Original context:

•Art reference:

What would I be without all the love in me?

The love I have for the abandoned, the love I have for the betrayed, the love I have for the wronged, the bad, the ugly, and love for everyone who deserves it, perhaps, even for those who don't.

But why isn't this love enough to love myself?

Why do I look in the mirror and find a stranger in it with hate filled eyes darted towards me and every gaze feels like a threat to my happiness? Is my love only to make other feel the warmth of a mother's embrace while I'm left behind with cold hands?

Even the love in me gets heavy to carry sometimes.

You tied together the two ends

Of the elastic that broke in my hair.

With satisfied ease,

And a playful tease

You handed it back to me.

I place the symbol on my wrist,

And there it has been

Since we parted a week ago.

A knot of love,

A knot of trust,

Wrapped around me

Nice and snug.

Maybe I was born for coffee, 🍵

Not for a coffee date.

Maybe I was written for challenges,

Not to be favored by fate.

Maybe I was destined to drown in the ocean, 🌊

Not to swim across and overcome my emotions.

Maybe I was written for the rain, ☔️

Not to hold happiness in vain.

Maybe I was born to just be alive,

Not to react when someone stabs with a knife. 💔

Maybe I was destined to play people's comfort gate,

Not meant to find my own soul mate.

And so - Maybe, maybe next time I will be born for all the things I couldn't have,

Not to just accept my fate and play people's fave.

≈inksoftly

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Can you also relate? Seems like yes huh? ❤️‍🩹

Yes. Some of us are born to feel more.