megan nan

the lil devil on your shoulder

[metamorphesque]

― Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

[s-s-d]

[old-ella-stuff]

[wishbzne-deactivated20210526]

excerpt from juliet (i), sarah certa

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“As a matter of fact, action doesn’t satisfy my soul. I’m eager to get home every evening. I take my bath, I put on my kimono, I go down barefoot into the garden…I dig a little, I water the plants, I follow the progress of the leaves and the buds. I sit at the window and wait for the moon to rise.”

Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by Richard Howard, from “The Rock Garden,”

[weltenwellen]

Anaïs Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1939-1947

[valtsv]

haven’t done anything stupid yet today but i’m sure i’ll think of something

[studioghiblishy]

[pigmenting]

sometimes i forget how many times i’ve picked myself off the floor, how many times i’ve washed away smudgy makeup and put myself to bed. how many times i’ve said no to something unhealthy. said yes to something good. how many times i’ve treated myself with kindness and patience. i forget how many times i’ve tended to wounds and made peace with my own anger. if i was taking care of a body that was not my own, i’d believe i was doing everything i could. so here’s to remembering that i’m doing the best i can.

[anqophora]

[visvya]

[owlskintrenary]

[salemwitchtrials-deactivated202]

“I lost myself so many years ago that I hesitate to try to find myself again. I am afraid to begin. Existing so often gives me palpitations. I am so afraid to be myself. I am so dangerous. They gave me a name and alienated me from myself.”

— A Breath of Life, Clarice Lispector

[lifeinpoetry]

One morning you learn that when a man says, 

If I hurt you again, I’ll kill myself 

it does not mean you are safe.

— Emily Pérez, from “How I Learned to Love,” House of Sugar, House of Stone

[blxckberrying]

Sometimes I see lovelier versions of my body going bad: girl sleeping in the high grass of a winter field. Girl with her fist in her mouth, gnawing her knuckles to mica. Girl as a a music box whistling weird lullabies,a well waiting to be filled with water, a safe place for rabbits to be born. Girl buried in snow. Girl carried off by bats. Girl as a sail with the wind let out lain down like a starched white sheet. Girl as a bell the storm is ringing over and over again. There is no good way to talk about pain, how it means you are only ever kissing the image of someone’s face in a pond, hearing their voice through the feeble connection of the last working pay phone in the town where you were born, weighing less than two hundred nickels, too small for your father’s hand. Girl split down the middle and re-sewn. Girl pulling stitches from the backs of her legs. Girl bleeding into plaster. Girl who cannot kneel in church. Girl tearing herself apart. No, no, Girl as a floating piano. Girl as a blue clam boat. Girl as a dove you can carry in your mouth without causing a bruise. Girl as the feather couched in your cheek. Girl as a small fire. Girl as just another heartbeat. Girl who will not call one more awful thing into the world.

Molly McCully Brown, “Self-Portrait of the Other Girl”

[azurih]

[lifeinpoetry]

i killed a plant once because i gave it too much water. lord, i worry that love is violence.

— José Olivarez, from “Getting Ready to Say I Love You to My Dad, It Rains,” Citizen Illegal