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@no1-you-know
I wish you’d stay.
I still feel you here in my skin and my bones. Some parts of you follow wherever I go.
“Because the people who love us scratch us. We have to let others be free to show us their love however they choose, however they know, however they can. And what is love, anyway? It’s clawmarks, scratches, scars, traces someone leaves inside of you.”
— Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “Rien ne va Plus,”
julien baker – everybody does
Ugochukwu Damian Okpara, from "Notes on Desire"
Virginia Woolf, from The Waves
Melinda Salisbury, The Sin Eater’s Daughter
My heart has been hurting, it wakes me at night,
The doctor says POTS, a name for my plight.
A rhythm unsteady, a body that sways,
But I feel it’s more, in mysterious ways.
He calls it a syndrome, a physical threat,
But something far deeper pulls at my chest.
Not only the vessels, the nerves, or the vein,
But a soul that’s been aching, a spirit in pain.
For science can measure the pulse and the beat,
But not the soft tremors where spirit and heart meet.
This wound is unseen, yet it burns just the same,
A whisper of sorrow without any name.
So while they treat symptoms, the numbers, the chart,
I’ll wander within, to the map of my heart.
For healing is layered — the body, the soul —
And only through both can I truly be whole.
Maybe this pain is a holy unrest,
A calling disguised as weight on my chest.
And maybe I’m breaking, not just to fall—
But to open, to deepen, to rise through it all.
If you plan on leaving, dont come at all.
“Do you think about me when you look at the moon?
I hate to admit I still care about you
And it's been a long time since I've heard you speak…..
I still feel you here in my skin and my bones
Yeah, some parts of you follow wherever I go……
My voice and my body, my heart and my soul
Something about them can't seem to let go
Of that moment in time when I got to know you”
Depression.
Hurts your dog more than you.
Being needed and being wanted are two different things….sometimes you’re neither.
If I say that I miss you, I know that you won’t.
So I don’t.
Fauna, Richard Siken