I’m very hollow

I mean, they can see it in me more so see through me,

I can’t hide anything that I think I am,

and I wish I could, for the sake of others,

I merely lack connection and love, that I simply take attention.

What is it about you that feels so karmic? So meant to be, so, “he’ll come around, he has to”

It’s been 3 months since I lost my beautiful grandmother, the matriarch of the family. My first death. It’s been so uncontrollable this life of mine, but more so the outbursts of tears when I find myself alone away, on the toilet

Dude not to freak you out but i think desire and attachment are the problem

I am too nervous to even allow myself the simple pleasure in life, of liking someone. That's it, I'm too nervous to love, to like even.

What a disservice, to be allowed on this earth, a one million chance and what has to be the easiest thing for a human, desire. I run from.

But, let's say I like you. And I do. I like that we listen to the same sounds, I like how expressive you are, I love your little touches, I love your laugh, I love your energy. But I don't know how yet, I just do. And I'm scared that people will make that choice for me, that is, in which way do I like you. I know I am desired by you, otherwise, you wouldn't even look my way. Or maybe you allow yourself to be loved and to love so widely, these things you do, aren't anything but that. Love to go everywhere.

everyday i'm just hoping to find someone, anyone, that gives me that feeling in my stomach, that feeling of a connection, unambigious .... where I feel understood and seen again, and for a long time. people see me, and then they sometimes start forgetting about me, until they leave.

“What is erotic about reading (or writing) is the play of imagination called forth in the space between you and your object of knowledge. Poets and novelists, like lovers, touch that space to life with their metaphors and subterfuge. The edges of the space are the edges of the things you love, whose inconcinnities make your mind move. And there is Eros, nervous realist in this sentimental domain, who acts out of a love of paradox, that is as he folds the beloved object out of sight into a mystery, into a blind point where it can float known and unknown, actual and possible, near and far, desired and drawing you on.”

— Anne Carson, from Eros the Bittersweet (Dalkey Archive Press, 1998)

source

Haverst on Instagram

jhene aiko and donald glover

girl dinner

@mothercain

Totally F**ked Up dir. Gregg Araki

Somewhere in downtown California

my memories are painted over

my chicken scratched height markings are under a thick coat of paint

maybe even a few

the double decker where I slept beneath my elder brother rusts slowly throughout the years

I can no longer know of when he tosses and turns

of when he wakes

nor can I feel his comforting presence in the darkest of nighs

I miss when I had the happy family

I often wonder what life couldve been

i wonder if i have been anyone’s first love, if i maybe stared at someone for too long and they then went home and dreamt about it later. or if i wore a scent of perfume and they were reminded of me whenever they smelt it. it sounds heartbreaking but it’s nice to think.

Winon Ryder

little prose from my journal

You've spent so much time creating who you want to be that you have no recollection or idea of who 'I' am anymore, I've forgotten how to merely be.

sfb

From Waiting for This Story to End Before I Begin Another by Jan Heller Levi (via hush-syrup)