sheinvanilla
The Insanity of Her Pretty Little Mind
Poetry and random pieces of myself clothed in words and musings.
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I don't want her to be the shell of everything he broke. A man of no worth even a fickle short of a dream. I detest his mind that knows nothing but to feed his ego. His hands, bare and abusive. His lips tinted black from every charred piece he picked to reflect his ideals. His hair fell in white. Three months. He tells stories with a spiked tongue and a broken inferiority. How's he to know with his soul so hollow?
I hate that one soup with thick noodles and chicken broth. He taught me how to savour warmth and comfort. I hate how I now refuse to know what it tastes like.
He ran away. Maybe family was not about the woman you married or the kids you left since that day from a province he brought them to and ought to give a decent life when bills and loans were everything fed on the table. He wastes pennies like he knows how to have money. Why would he care when he's a man child clothed in ego and misogyny.
I hate that he paints her a tint of gray that I break myself everyday to color her back to life. He made her an impostor. His words poisoned her silence. Killing every ounce of life and passion within her heart. How can i possibly watch her lose her light when she's the only reason why I try to get sleep every damn night?
I want to beat people's mouths trying to know and dictate how she feels.
"She's got another guy."
"Look, she's out with her kid this time of night."
"She' heartless enough to leave him."
I do not care if I maim their tongue. Silence is better than having their chatter suffocate the living sanity I have.
It's not strange to hate you anymore. Maybe anger hasn't left my heart after nineteen years. You're the reason why I refuse to believe I am capable of love. You're the reminder of why absences hurt more than actually leaving your ghost. You're the plague of my existence. I hate even the fact that your blood runs underneath my skin. I want to bleed myself dry and be clean of any trace you ever gave to build me.
I refuse to know you. I refuse to have you in my life and slowly strangle me to death.
I loathe you so much so that I finally abhor myself less.
—sheinvanilla
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"Why are you so kind to people?"
Because hating myself hurts a little less when I make other people smile.
—sheinvanilla
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You can't be too mature to say "Thank you" and "I love you".
The length of simple words such as those, do not and they cannot expire. The more we hold back from saying anything, the more we fail to express what clogs our hearts. It's one to make someone smile but it's a different thing to keep their heart warm.
—sheinvanilla, Pieces of my mind from Reply 1988
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If the wind comes howling at your door,
Remember all the marks by the wooden floor
In this old forgotten house,
You can hear the shiver of one's soul
Echoing by the bridges,
It startled you,
But don't let it grip your sanity.
—sheinvanilla
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Why are my thoughts petrified?
—sheinvanilla
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"Old patterns are provoked. Never did I imagine a surge so cruel it ended up submerging my soul."
—sheinvanilla
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Why must I break seeing you this way?
This excruciating tempo of feeling you breathe unevenly
Temps me to poke my eyes with a steel dipped in acid
How do I not ache seeing you falter like that?
It's the same pain but it hits worse each time I feel how my heart's been pounded over and over again until my blood stops, until all my chambers become cold and white
Should I even taint something dead?
Smear it with blood and pretend it's all okay or maybe drop it off a cliff?
It's pounding; it's annoying.
It provokes me; it maddens me.
You deserve more than just this.
I despise my hand for not being able to do anything but to help
I can't change anything yet.
Who am I even?
What am I right now?
I feel useless.
I am useless.
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"It's been so long. Maybe I've killed myself again."
—sheinvanilla
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"My darling, you hold so much sadness in your eyes I can almost touch the scars of your soul and cry."
– Alexandra Vasiliu
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She'd tell me that.
That exact same line.
Where can I put it down, Mom? Where?
Glass, Irony & God, ‘The Glass Essay’ by Anne Carson
[ID: You remember too much / my mother said to me recently.
Why hole onto all that? And I said, / Where can I put it down?]
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Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. You learn how glib condolences can feel. You learn how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for language.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, from Notes on Grief
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Why can't I feel? Is my depression another response?
—sheinvanilla
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I can't even cry. It makes me puke.
—sheinvanilla
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I ache.
I am petrified.
Why does it feel like I am a million miles away?
Did I even choose the right thing or am I screwing up in between?
My devils and all of their horns come crashing down like they're ready to strangle me to the core.
It's excruciating to only read.
It's pathetic.
I feel pathetic.
What hold do I have?
What remedy is there after you lose a part of yourself?
And why does it always have to be the better part?
I don't know why time can't just stand till for a while and let me pick up all my pieces longing to be nursed.
Why can't it all just stop.
I can't think straight.
I haven't been processing any emotion the past few months.
Should I let it swallow me whole and feel my pitch black soul hang on to one heavy emotion?
Grief.
I don't know if I'm human or if the process is just freaking me out carving another wound that I am not even sure how to heal.
You can't run back and see us.
You can't see all your better dreams.
You can't take all your chances.
You can't leap
You can't jump.
You can't aim for all the things you've wished for.
You'll be the same.
You'll always stay the same.
You're still seventeen.
You'll always be seventeen.
That bitter part haunts me.
I cried on the phone talking to my mom if I could go home just to see you once more.
I couldn't, I am so sorry that I couldn't.
No one knew. I had to fake it.
I had to act like I was okay and that I don't feel anything just to get by.
It's hurting me so bad that I can't even remember the last time I saw you.
Why do we all need to slowly let you go?
We were all just starting.
Why'd you have to go so soon?
Why do we have to go through losing you?
—sheinvanilla
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the way somebody comes back but only in a dream
1.)Hannah Lock, Not Quite Here / 2.)Wendell Berry, “A Meeting” / 3.)Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson / 4.)Leila Chatti, “I Dreamed I Forgot” / 5.)Anna Akhmatova, Poem Without A Hero and Selected Poems, tr. Lenore Mayhew & William Mcnaughton / 6.)John Berger, A Seventh Man / 7.)Euripides, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides, tr. Anne Carson / 8.)Xie Lei, Blow / 9.)Frank Bidart, “Light” / 10.)Li Qingzhao, “Tune: Pertridge Sky,” tr. Jiaosheng Wang / 11.)The Dog Island. Ubisoft, 2007 / 12.)Elisa Gonzalez, “After My Brother’s Death, I Reflect on the Iliad” / 13.)Ōtomo No Yakamochi, Written on the Sky; Poems from the Japanese, tr. Kenneth Rexroth / 14.)@/solavey, indigo / 15.)Louise Glück, 12.6.71
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My grief hurts.
—sheinvanilla
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