Notes from the bathroom floor.

26 ~ Aspiring Author »..and somehow, i still turn to my creativity. like it’s a wound that knows how to stitch itself.« ko-fi.com/perlmuttbluete

[perlmuttbluete]

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[paper-wounds]

via

[perlmuttbluete]

So many times I have stood at the edge of living. Not fearless -never fearless- but suspended between breath and breaking, as if life itself had taught me how to lean into its fractures without falling through them. With time, that edge stopped feeling like an ending. It became a place I returned to. A strange kind of altar where silence gathers, where the noise of being alive finally loses its grip on me. What others might call a refuge, I began to recognize as a mirror. A place where I could sit with everything I could not carry elsewhere. I let my legs hang over the void of my thoughts, not as surrender, but as conversation. And I watched the horizon as it bled itself into color- soft oranges, bruised purples, the kind of light that looks like it has survived something too. It painted without asking permission. It always does. And I stayed there long enough to understand: even the edge is part of the landscape. Even the trembling is part of being here. Even I am.

-Notes from the bathroom floor.

[inkpressedpetals]

[perlmuttbluete]

I’ve always loved the things that make me look soft on the outside, even when I’m not. Ballet. Contemporary. Paint under my fingernails. Clay drying in the cracks of my hands. Instruments that make my silence feel less embarrassing. I don’t know how to exist without turning it into something. What am I even here for if not for art and expression, if not for this constant urge to spill myself into something that outlives me for a second? What is a life worth if nothing is left behind except a body that did its job and stayed quiet? I don’t want quiet. I want what I touched to remember me. Something bent by my hands. Something stained by my emotion. Something that trembled the way I did and still kept its shape.

-Notes from the bathroom floor

[birintiharmelegi]

[potato-face09]

[potato-face09]

[perlmuttbluete]

If you ever open up to someone, hand them your heart, and they respond with defensiveness instead of compassion, walk away.

Don't do this to yourself.

There is someone out there who will hold your heart with the same care and tenderness you offer theirs.

You can break the cycle.

You deserve a relationship that feels safe, not exhausting. One that brings you peace instead of fear. One that never makes you feel like you're "too much."

Because you're not.

You never were.

Repeat after me.

You. Were. Never. Too. Much.

[perlmuttbluete]

they called it art

or a phase

or attention

but nobody understood

it was never expression I chose

it was what was left of me

after everything else

wasn’t listened to.

-Notes from the bathroom floor.

[perlmuttbluete]

And no matter where I ran, I couldn't outrun the person who broke my heart.

-Notes from the bathroom floor.

[perlmuttbluete]

And just like that, I let the greatest thing that had ever happened to me fall away in human form.

The sound of it breaking never stopped echoing.

It was as if the life I had dreamed of shattered into a million sharp pieces, each one reflecting the future I would never have.

I was the one who let go.

I was the reason it was gone.

And the cruelest part wasn't losing it.

It was waking up every day knowing I had to keep living with myself.

-Notes from the bathroom floor.

[astriloquum]

[mournfulroses]

D. H. Lawrence, from The Selected Poems of D. H. Lawrence; “A Woman and her Dead Husband,”

[standupandsaveyourself]

and what if i am unlovable. what then

[thoughtcascades]

need somebody to look at me like i’m the problem they prayed for

[paper-wounds]