Moona-257 - Things Ive Lost On The Way Here

angel-haired boy, your kisses fall on me like rain. with your shy smile and warm palms. ive slipped up and called you “baby”, crossing my fingers and hoping that you don’t think I’m crazy. angel-haired boy, turn to me and smile. speak to me in the language of lovers. let me kiss you till my lipstick turns your lips cherry red. angel-haired boy, won’t you sweeten this body like spring sweetens the air? walk over my grave, whisper my name. watch me rise from the dead to be yours again. in this life and the next.

Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl, but maybe someday I will attract the right one who will treat me like there are stars within me

(Edit): This is a temporary addition to this post; this is a popular post right now and I’m desperate here. I made a gofundme for my mom. If you can spare anything that’d be amazing if not reblog this so it gets more visibility, thank you sm I’m sorry to do this.. it’s the newest post on my tumblr

“Want”, Clementine von Radics // Duck Butter, dir. Miguel Arteta // “GPS”, Shauna Barbosa // “Ten Love Letters”, Clementine von Radics

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

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.

every time I talk about my own abuse for the sake of justice or awareness, all the words punch the back of my throat, a heavy thumping that spills from my mouth like the ugly mess it was. it’s still so painful and emptying and numbing all at the same time. It feels like I spoil the conversation, that I’m being uncouth or impolite. my story has no place anywhere.

a glass just empty, full of unoccupied space. a head tangled with words. I’m still confused about the concept of justice. and love. and forgiveness. it just feels unfair. just feels so wrong to make my own body’s safety into a movement or a form of activism. I don’t want to be loud or strong or empowered, I just want to be safe.

this world, full of its misogyny and hatred towards women, doesn’t help. The vilification of victims in the media makes me feel even smaller. the internalisation of misogyny, undermining my own pain because of my body’s “crimes” doesn’t help either.

my voice sometimes doesn’t feel like my own. my body never feels like it belongs to me. all this activism and anger and pain and I still can’t shake the feeling.

I worry about other girls. I worry about their voices being stolen not only by their abusers, or society but also by themselves.

The closest I’ve ever been to a crime scene is the stairwell where I had my body ripped in two

(my mind still wanders there, sifting for clues). 

Your Honour- I introduce Exhibit A: 

Torn underwear, a bruised pelvis and a mouth full of silence 

In a plastic bag for the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. 

To the Defence: look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying- please, 

Because I can’t process the clockwork murder that man made of my own body. 

I carry hot pink pepper spray like lipstick- 

does that prove fear for you?

Is the fact that I can’t eat without throwing up indication enough for the horrors I endured? 

Will you please protect me? 

Because I can’t sleep anymore. 

I can’t eat anymore.

I lost myself to him.

Exhibit B: let the jury read a phone full of messages, 

Coerced consent, 

“I’ll leave you if you don’t do this”, he said. 

My mother asks me what I stayed for and all I can muster is a croaky 

“I loved him, mama”

Ladies and gentlemen- 

Won’t you pry inside me like he did?

Follow me down the tunnel he dug between my legs?

Believe me when I say I am terrified. 

Icy blue eyes, 

Claws for hands and 

Lips that shushed me when I screamed. 

Exhibit C: I offer me. 

Can’t you see my body is a funeral pyre now? 

Can’t you see that this is the scene of the crime? 

How humiliating this process is. 

How it makes me wish I never said anything at all.

So you’re damaged goods, my ex boyfriend laughed after I told him about my abuse. 

I laugh with him as I feel the silence catch in my throat.

He confirmed my fears: 

That this body is worth nothing now.

It would never be desirable ever again. 

Never told anyone how I locked myself out of my own body, 

how I’d never be able to go back now.

Even if I did, what would be left? 

How does the burnt forest learn to trust the sun again?

He was probably right,

All the nights I spent tearing at my skin, 

Trying to reach something new,

Something that had yet to be touched by him, 

Something pure.