Moona-257 - Things Ive Lost On The Way Here

‘Being a Woman is Inherently Uncanny’: An Interview With Carmen Maria Machado | Hazlitt

see, I turn silent during sex. my voice buries itself in my throat like a messy bloodclot. how could I be anything other than passive anyway? anything other than silent? my abuser carries my voice around like his souvenir, has split my body in two and took one half with him. left me with skin I don’t recognise, a body that still mistakes warmth for war. i turn silent during sex. let his hands paint orchids on my neck, let his fingers climb up me in search of my secrets, let his body into mine until I have nowhere to put the bad memories. this body isn’t mine. I don’t think it ever will be.

“You once told me that the human eye is god’s loneliest creation. How so much of the world passes through the pupil and still it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.”

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel

my bed for one feels so empty without you here. come over, let’s eat shitty chinese and watch bad tv (which is inherently never a bad idea). kiss me. let’s dance to frank sinatra. kiss me again. sleep next to me, tell me you’ll be here in the morning. tell me you’ll meet me in my dream tonight. kiss me again and again. and again.

does he want you for what you are or does he want you for what you give

Forough Farrokhzad, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of F. F.; “In The Dark,”

I love the fact that you need to lean on me, a boy says. 

He loved my vulnerability and how big I made him feel, 

But would get annoyed if I’d call him in the midst of another anxiety attack, 

Begging to know if he still loved me,

 if he still wanted me.

He called me his broken little thing. 

Wrote a play and in it I stabbed myself with a blade.

I would write him a suicide note thanking him for his bravery and his charm.

He finds me on the floor, cries over me and goes on to be a doctor, 

It’s only now that I realise he never loved me. 

He just loved the control.

the kitchen smells like toast and fresh coffee. I’m at the sink, washing two mugs for us, singing softly to etta james. you come up behind me and envelope me in a tight hug, lean your mouth into my neck and say good morning angel. I make some joke about how you’re up early for a sunday and we both laugh. I turn to hug you, my hands soapy and dripping wet from washing the dishes. we kiss and laugh at the hand prints on your t-shirt. you don’t care. love is the small glow of the stove light. and the break of sunshine through the window. love belongs here, with us, on a sunday morning.

Kim Addonizio, from ‘Blues for Roberto’, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems