Vivamus, Moriendum Est | Let Us Live, Since We Must Die

this post is life 

“I met a sailor on a ship with promise in his eyes. He kissed me on the mouth and dug his fingers in my thighs. But a sailor ain’t a savior ‘cause they only tell you lies. So I left him there ‘til the sunrise. Well, the waves were tall and they were crashing down. He’s laying in the water, begging God to let him drown. So I showed him all my teeth and then I laughed out loud 'cause I never wanted saving, I just wanted to be found. There is a lighthouse in the middle of the deep. And I’m still stranded on the shoreline there. And nobody hears me scream. And I’ll lure you like a landslide. And I’ll show you lovely things if you rescue me, but they’re make-believe. The lighthouse by the sea.”

— The Lighthouse by Halsey

I Will Tell this Story to the Sun Until You Remember that You are the Sun, Erin Slaughter

This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me.

Emily Dickinson

Virginia Woolf, A Writer’s Diary

they’re just like me, i’m just like them, we’re all the same.

My therapist once told me, “You are the guiltiest feeling person I’ve ever met” and just to prove her right, I took it to heart. An astrologer said, “You have so much water in your chart. What is it like to feel the emotions of every single person alive, everyday?” and I wept because I sensed he was displeased. A teacher told my parents “She’s very sensitive. Far more than the other kids in her class.” I took my SATs at 9 years old, but they encouraged my mother to hold me back because of how my eyes glistened when I heard the word no. She told them to go to hell. So I cried my way through my education until high school when they said “You take everything so personally, you’ll never survive in a company environment. You wouldn’t make a good employee.” So I employed myself (out of spite or…necessity) and then later, I hired 200 people. A boyfriend told me “Don’t be so dramatic, everything isn’t a movie.” Fine, so it’ll be an album then. The doctor said “This shouldn’t hurt a bit.” I tread daily on a minefield that leaves me classifying the variations in footsteps, the tonality in voice, a change in breath. “Is everything okay? You seem mad” is my pledge of allegiance to this tightly wound bundle of flesh. I am cut open, butterflied and flayed, with every single nerve exposed like live wires and, yes, they all hurt to touch. Each interaction is a litmus test of how well liked I am, and therefore how worthy to live. I wake up every morning and the moral barometer resets, T-minus 12 hours to prove to myself that I am not the bad person I believe I must be. Sleep, repeat. An amnesiac nightmare. Prometheus on a rock and the gull in my guts is myself. I once envied those with greater armor, but not anymore. “Why do you care so much?” Guard yourself from the little grievances, but the shield does not differentiate. The space where I am vulnerable to the pain that passes through is an entry point for the microscopic good that others may miss. I live in technicolor torment. If I could do it over again and choose the comfortable grey, I would seize a knife and cut the little keyholes back into my every limb. So the light can get in.

How truly romantic would that be. 

to love a poet; to be immortalized in verse

From a “Vow Of Hate” by Lylah James.

Your mouth tastes of cigar and sorrow,

I like the way my name sounds on your lips.

But your smile will fade come morrow.

It is wintry and I am lonely,

Please come back.

Your mouth tastes of cigar and sorrow,

I like the way you hold me,

Even when I know it is all a ruse – a bleeding arrow.

For you still envisage her when you bed me.

Your mouth tastes of cigar and sorrow,

I like the way you touch me,

So coldly, like the dead wings of a sparrow,

And I have begun to crave your warmth.

Your mouth tastes of cigar and sorrow,

I do not like the way you left me without a second glance,

After your soft caress had been so thorough.

Please come back.

changed lives

Halsey to matty

He doesn't like to cuddle. He likes to grip my hips and pull the fibers of pink tissue in shreds from my lip with his teeth. He throws his hands in the air like a messiah and leans his head out the open window. easy. breathe. codeine. breeze. We laugh loudly and kiss loudly and moan loudly. He mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. I run my hand along the seam off his tight black jeans beneath the table top. He rolls his eyes and smirks at me. We take every opportunity to touch, to feel, so secretly. So public. Exhibitionist pleasure. We play like children, tousling my hair and I climb on his back. We roll spliff after spliff and talk rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. He says "us" like it means "amen" and his eyes burn wild with a fire of passion. We get drunk. Off of wine and skin and things we love. His smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbones. His eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight. A glint of silver is growing up the side of his hairline. He thinks it makes him look distinguished. I laugh and agree. He loves to be so much older than me. He thinks it makes him wise. We spend a lot of time in hotel rooms with the doors shut. (We spend a lot of time outside of hotel rooms with our mouths shut.) He thinks the Xanax makes the sex last longer and I don't argue. I always wake up first. I sit at the desk and work quietly and glance at him in the sheets. Vulnerable and quiet. Soft face. Soft sounds. A warm cup of coffee and marmalade light through the windows. We bond over love for our brothers. We fight over where the chord change should go. We tease, oh we tease. He likes clean socks and messy hair and he runs his fingers down my overall straps with a tigers grin. He writes his name in the fog on the mirror from where he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pressed my face against the glass. He loves soul music. We sing confidently and triumphantly. I tap my fingers like spiders legs across his bare chest and undo his buttons one by one. I toss my head back and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won't be fair. He speaks like a pastor and trips over his words, his tongue struggles to meet his brain. That's how a prodigy thinks. (Or it's the drugs). He knows when my words are about him and he lets it all go to his head and I don't care because I love to watch him love himself. We laugh and fuck and play and write and plot and say goodbye and never worry. He is my occasional constant. A parody of himself. A paradox of ever present and transparent. I don't care what he is. I just care THAT he is. (via seenteenblack)

There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in it’s life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest, it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above it’s own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But, the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.

Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

I don’t know why but I don’t think I’ll ever forget this.