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infp-t she/her aries ☼, sag ☽, libra ↑

[d4hlia]

i will never see god.

i don’t believe in god but i would lead myself into theism if only to pray for my boyfriend’s happiness. i would dismantle and restructure my whole belief system if only for the opportunity to beg for him to be unafraid of being happy. i try to pray for that now, but i know nobody is listening. if there is a god, they surely don’t like me. i have been hateful, doubtful, ungrateful all my life. i have never given any god reason enough to love me, much less to grant my prayers. i have considered that they have been answered, but with “no”.

i hope the next time i pray into the void that the universe or the powers that be remember that i’m praying not for myself, but for someone who does believe in god. i’m asking his god, through tears and with gritted teeth, to love him. because as much as i love him, it may never be enough. my love will not alleviate his fear of being happy. he is a prisoner to his adversaries and maybe only divine love can set him free. what is divine love for, if not to liberate those who have it?

surely there is no god who could ever love me. what god could love someone who commands them to do better for their devotees? what god could love someone who anathematizes them as i do? if there is a god, i surely will never meet them. but i will feel repose in hell knowing that my lover has been loved divinely.

[d4hlia]

taking an afternoon nap in front of a fan with the window open on a warm spring day has healing properties

[d4hlia]

oh me? just a 20 year old girl living in my pit of a bedroom experiencing emotions that humankind has yet to discover

[lesb0]

if you're a human adult you physically need to eat actual vegetables, read real books, work, exercise, be outdoors, have sex, and have other real adult humans to talk to all on at LEAST a weekly basis or else you go will literally go completely insane and the problem is too many people choose to skip all those basic needs on purpose

[lesb0]

"I'm depressed and always tired and my body is in mysterious pain all the time for no reason" yeah you've spent a whole month isolated except for talking to online people and coworkers and eating convenience store snacks for half your meals with 0 physical activity like that isn't passive self harm. of course your body doesn't like that, it's exhausting

[d4hlia]

i remember last year during the summer when i made a point to spend time outside every day. i would get home from school and sit in my back yard with some tea or a snack and just exist outside without doing anything but eating or drinking whatever delight i had with me. it was a better time. i was better, as a human being. i felt better then than i do now. i miss making time for that.

[soracities]

Antonio Porchia, Voices (trans. W.S. Merwin) [transcript in ALT]

[d4hlia]

god, or author?

going to hell, but not alone…

[g i-dle, villain dies]

[d4hlia]

“life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.”

life of pi, yann martel

[d4hlia]

i thought by now i’d feel better.

[abernathyvalois]

no mom this is NOT teen angst I am just in my plath esque melancholy era

[abernathyvalois]

[soracities]

December drips through my nerves.

Charles Wright, from “December Journal”, The World of the Ten Thousand Things: Poems 1980-1990 (via soracities)

[d4hlia]

a bedroom is such a sacred space. your whole life happens there. your deepest and most intimate feelings happen there. all your internal experiences that you couldn’t bear to share with the outside world happen there. you’re at your most vulnerable there. you’re safe there.

my family just moved and my new bedroom already feels like my own. it’s just my bed and a bunch of boxes but i can feel that intimacy there. it’s like meeting someone new and immediately being able to tell that you’ll be best friends. it’s like meeting your soulmate for the first time. the connection one has with their bedroom is unparalleled. your bedroom says, i am your space. you are my person. and you say back, i will let you see all of me.

[d4hlia]

Am I wrong to say that ignoring the bully doesn’t always make them go away? Am I wrong to say that fighting fire with fire is the only way to keep yourself afloat sometimes?

Bullies don’t respond to a turned cheek by transforming into kind people. Bullies are bullies because of something internal.

Nothing I do can transform her from a bully. She needs to be the one to change, and all change requires a push to be put into action. Change doesn’t happen in a stagnant life. So I want to be the push. I want to break the silence. I want to ripple the water. I want to fight back.

I can only absorb so many of the blows. How long do I have to go on pretending she doesn’t affect me? Why did I have to grow up that way? Why were my formative years spent tip-toeing around my words, doing an intricate dance, the choreography to which I know too well? I’ve played this part before. This is my starring role. I’ve been the stone-cold mirror that reflects her deflated power-play. I realize now that I’m no mirror, but a door.

I am a wide open door, allowing her words in. I am a wide open door giving her words a place to stay. To fight curtness with kindness is to put a roof over her head and give her the life she should’ve given me. I’m slamming shut, and instead choosing myself. I evict her from my heart, my mind, and my soul, and I refuse to give her words a home.

I’ve been only a girl for nineteen long years. I embrace my inner child every day because that inner child longs for the life that was taken from her by a mother who can’t love. I have to be the mother my inner child never had; I have to raise myself time and time again. I owe nothing to my mother but the ailments I’ve grown into. My inner child cries for a mother that doesn’t exist. She cries for a mother who will hold her and nourish her and love her, but the mother she has is a bully.

I’m infuriated. I’m livid. There’s a fire burning in me that yearns to fight the fire burning in her. I have a fire that yearns to burn down the home in me that put up her words for so long. I have a fire that can’t be put out anymore. I want my fire to burn. I want to be angry. I want to feel rage simmering in the back of my mind every day to remind me of what I deserve.

I deserve better. My inner child deserves better. I deserve a mother who doesn’t preclude me. My inner child deserves the life that she has to live posthumously at nineteen. Most importantly, I deserve to be heard. I deserve not to exist as a mirror of my mother and what she could’ve been. I deserve to live free of the cage that her jealousy entraps me in. I deserve to be believed when I shout her abuse from the rooftops of the home I built for myself and locked her out of. I deserve it all. She deserves none of it.

[d4hlia]

sometimes i daydream about studying. sometimes i daydream about being in a coffee shop with my laptop and notes and books because the romanticism of bettering myself through education is so much more appealing than wherever i might be presently.

[d4hlia]

i want some otherworldly storm to wash me away in the way that the onset of march washes away the winter

[d4hlia]

the kitchen is such a holy space. the kitchen is nurturing. the kitchen is a safehaven. the kitchen is an invitation to sustenance and peace. the kitchen is patient; it waits for you to appear, weary-eyed and hungry. the kitchen is a venus fly trap to vulnerability. the kitchen hears the scrapes of knives, the kitchen tastes the bitterness of internal battles. the kitchen understands the secret language spoken between two lovers who slow-dance throughout it, hears the whispers of their feet against the floor and the “i love you”s behind their lips. the kitchen is loving.

[d4hlia]

sobbing because my boyfriend just told me about when he first learned my name, what he felt and what he thought… “it was like a breath of fresh air…i thought that your name was so beautiful and so special and i never imagined that someone with such a special name would ever love me.” oh god

[d4hlia]

“and now [grass] seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.”

– walt whitman, song of myself