antistoicheart

A photographer sharing poems of thoughts conveyed to my therapist. Empathy for the unwell. A place of respite.

[antistoicheart]

Occasionally, I get trapped between the duality of "I can forgive myself for who I was," and "What the fuck have I done..." - antistoicheart

[antistoicheart]

I’m weak-willed enough to admit that her words govern the flow of my life. She is the moon incarnate, and I—the wave-washed child, left without an edge to grip the earth—am unanchored around her. - antistoicheart

[antistoicheart]

My desire is to feel a burning passion within my existence without having to light myself on fire.

[antistoicheart]

Occasionally, I get trapped between the duality of "I can forgive myself for who I was," and "What the fuck have I done..."

[antistoicheart]

We were close in the way we filled empty moments with laughter ricocheting off the walls, but we weren't close in the way hearts collide.

[antistoicheart]

I used to curate paragraphs before speaking to you in hopes that I could get you to understand, to dance around your defensiveness, to channel your empathy.

What a fool I was.

[antistoicheart]

I used to find solace in knowing that other relationships fell to the same fate as mine because at least the pain I carried wasn't an experience unique to our unhealthy dynamic. These days, that concept does nothing for me because knowing someone else is injured does nothing for my bleeding heart.