Girlinwriting - Tumblr Blog

i wish i could go through life without needing to speak

like a model, an enigma, someone who wisped in and out of rooms

i could focus all my energy on cultivating a persona

speaking with my scarves, coats, dresses, and gentle smiles

but it wouldn’t do, i was looked at strangely when words didn’t flow easily through teeth

i was the odd man out by way of silence

i had to have opinions, a certain garishness, to prove my humanity

to prove i’m not one of those girls

who sits still, quietly

and aren’t people enough

Margaret Atwood // Friedrich Nietzsche

masculinity is the same thing that hurt me and that will protect me

it splintered off bone and it’s what will piece me back together 

it’s what tattered my envelope and what will hide me in the rain

because the wrong men hurt me, the wrong men cut me

but the right men heal me, the right men love me

the right men shelter me

like i never could

and i am safe 

in their arms

we can be in our own world escape within each others bodies just innocent, with gentle fear no tainted lust all of my past lovers don’t measure up and when i think of them i cringe but you and i will start something new something pure you will love me as the mess i am and i will find that all that i need is within you and we can float away on our own little island and every person who said it couldn’t be done will preen and pry desperate for a look at what we’d created and will it be healthy? well, it’ll be love

James Baldwin.

Ada Limón interviewed by Lauren LeBlanc

I walk around and pretend to be one of the normal, happy ones But I’m nothing like them and I think they can smell it I wish I was Wish I could hop over their white picket fence But I’m stained, tainted, dashed Ruined I used to delight in it Got so used to the blade I turned it on myself Used men to flesh me open Expose me for the nonhuman I was I wasn’t whole, I knew that And they didn’t want a real girl

I’m scared of men and I have a crush on nearly all of them They make my stomach flip with just a bit of eye contact How did I never make it past the sixth grade? They could tick none of the boxes But if they have kind eyes and give me a smile I might just concoct a love story It’ll buzz around and tap me on the shoulder  I can’t get rid of it  Every time they see me Try to be kind, try to make them feel at home But I’m flipping with fear, humming with adoration It’s always the ones with the baggy jeans, the vintage tees, the tattoos and recklessness And you know you’re not good for me Yeah you’re no good for me And I’m better now But we can still be friends I have to try my best and fight this little mind of mine But we can be friends Yeah we’ll be good friends

Sinking, slipping Why do I always plop right down into what sucks me up and absorbs any remnant of joy? My bed is a monster, it eats me up every day It pulls me down like a magnet, I can’t resist it like iron can’t resist metal I’m sick of it, hate it, wish I could burn it Never need it again But why do I choose it over everything every time? When I’m driving I’m flying But the whole time I’m looking forward to the sweet, sweet relief of my bed I don’t need to try anymore, there’s nothing I need to give It’s a problem, a compulsion, an addiction I riddle my mind with tasks so the dependency is less important Who cares if you’re creating, if you’re producing? But I know it’s not normal to be horizontal more often than straight I need to toughen up, strengthen up, get a stronger back, thicker skin But I cozy up in my bed with the promise of another day Another time I try But it’s haunted, my bed My thoughts are never worse than when I’m in its sheets Coaxed into my personal hell I’m sick of it, sick of it forever It needs to be burned, exorcised From every nightmare, every ghost That plagues my thoughts and jeers at my passions I just want a reset. A point where I don’t have to feel. A place where I don’t have to exist. But it turns out not existing is painful and exhausting. I must keep existing, keep doing, all day, every day. I must keep moving. Faster and faster. I have to stay ahead.

i envied those born into families with hands holding lit lighters all around them, constantly nursing and blowing and encouraging their flames. they took over the world with their wildfires. they glowed from within and seemed to have never faced the darkness. i envied them so much.

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

I feel hardened in a kind of concerning way. like my softness has evaporated from inside me and just left a hard crunchy shell in its place. one with no warmth or kindness. and it’s quite jagged and pointy as well and cuts people when I just move past them in an effort to not interact with them, and I just end up hurting them anyway. I was sorry, I wasn’t trying to be this way. I was just trying to not be any way, I was trying to avoid pain but I just ended up causing it. I mourned the loss of my golden shiny warmth of energy my fire had been put out but I was finding my matches, I was grasping in the dark for my lighter. all I knew about myself, who I am, was my shine. and now it felt like it was gone again, and all that’s left is a shell. you can’t give much with just a shell, there’s nothing inside. when I look in my eyes I look like I’ve already died inside and there’s somehow a lag in time and my body hasn’t caught up yet. but I was looking for my lighter. I would get myself relit if it was the last thing I did.

"Poems are not written...", Andrey Voznesensky (translated by metamorphesque)

He was a cruel blade that offered a kind of peace and gratification that I knew was wrong. He brought everything, every dark thought to the surface. He rewarded me for being the worst version of myself. However, I fit into it all like a glove. I worry if I will slip back into it, if I won’t be able to resist it, if some other man will hold the same gene, the same temptation and bring me crashing to my feet, weakened in the knees, unable to put up a fight again.