You are right in front of me. There’s no illusion of what you were or what you might become. It’s stark reality right in front of my face & trust me it’s not the pretty little picture I imagined it to be. It’s a dismal reflection of what it used to be. A harsh indicator that sheds light on all the scars from the knives we have thrown at each other through our the years. My sad voice reserved only for moments like these. The realization that the past is indeed the past. I’ll be never able to drink your thoughts like wine without somehow greedily grappling for what was and what used to be. It’s over. Now I really have to move on. The quicker my heart accepts this the better. I spent efforts running. No more running, the truth is in front of me & it speaks volumes.
I don’t trust people who don’t love themselves and yet tell me, “I love you.” There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.
— Maya Angelou (via mtylerd)
“be not the slave of your own past. plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep and swim far, so you shall come back with self-respect, with new power, with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.”
- ralph waldo emerson
When I do the dishes I think too much.
I think of the way objects accumulate as a kind of representation
of an individual mind.
A projection of my American intellect.
Intellect that feasted until the whole brain
moved into decline,
until it stopped forever
its fanatical growth
and settled down at twenty-three
to a permanent size.
Now my intelligence is a line of hieroglyphs,
a blouse fluttering.
I am barely able
to breathe. I cannot appreciate
rain on my bike. Or stand
on a balcony for too long
without throwing something off of it. My mind
walks slowly across the abyss.
My mind thinks of itself as a shipwreck.
My intellect is like a grist of bees
surrounding buffalo
in secluded forest.
My mind rides hard with horses
under a sky and moon
that issue chromatic variants of white.
My mind
finishes you. Love’s cigarette lit
in love’s one free hand reading you a poem
that begins: must then all humans love like this?
— “Dishes,” Bianca Stone (via clavicola)
