as you get older, you realize that you’re not always right and there’s so many things you could’ve handled better, so many situations where you could’ve been kinder and all you can really do is forgive yourself and let your mistakes make you a better person.
[ID: Do you like me?
Mom says I love
you every time I
ask if she likes me.
This is a short story, it begins with a womb and ends with rage filled
love, it begins with a screaming and raging evening and ends with a
heavy silence at the dinner table. My mother loves me, and there is
nothing more to say. I love my mother, and there is nothing more to
say. I pray and pray that I don't become her someday. And there is
nothing more to say.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned
you, with your hands splayed out in little decadent arcs. how god sent a bird to cut through my heart. your voice a grand piano. this, a church space. worship; cry out. i saw you and knew i could never find peace.
you watched me undo myself on the beautiful green; angel feathers in my teeth. i suddenly understood the temptation of eve. i wanted your red hair in my hands. i wanted you under me. the kick to the ribs every time we lock eyes, the dip of your chin, that coy smile. you, somehow knowing.
only you. the rest of the world went silent. all of los vegas lost power; the congregation silent behind our doors. we sanctify only in the silken dark. just beak and maw. i would have spooled the whole aria of my life through you. undone eden. is it prayer, is it pleading? the soft release of your voice; that gentle way you play me so precise that i rend apart.
was this the worship i lacked? that precious velvet world you render. the way you love me through my suffering. godhood in you. this place outside; this remade holy. you made a garden appear where had only been concrete. the whole hotel burning down behind us; you still sang me to sleep. you belong to the veil. i felt it whisper while you passed your mouth over me.
we have been given so few scraps and been told to enjoy our feast. we spent so much of our time here starving. so much is missing from me. before this, they took my mother and my love and my future. so many girls missing. they grew sick at the idea of us, overwhelmed with disgust. i kept my hands still rather than spoil this world with the broken car window of my heart. and still: you came here, spine straight, smile quiet. the gravedirt gathered around you - secret places you had chosen to plant flowers. wearing the shadows like a gown, sewing it into art. this way you fold our little space and make something new from nothing. this way that your gentle music took a backroom and made it into a steeple.
i want you like a reprieve. i want you like it is both prayer and pleading. i want you like a better memory. my hand in yours, pressed down on satin sheets. our bodies tangled, desperate, thrumming. the sweet blue of night, your breath in a sigh, the curve of melody. the crane of your neck, and how it kills me. like this, i understand the point of the fight. like this, even just standing up seems like victory. like this, the dirt and blood taste like glory.
You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.
Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
I must learn to love the fool in me - the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.
Theodore Isaac Rubin