black journals, blue pens

Grey  //  two-spirit, they/them  //  transmutations expert

[juansendizon]

Healing from trauma is understanding that the war is over even if you can never again remove your armor.

Juansen Dizon

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 2: 1934-1939

[stilltenseaboutit]

i know i won't be here forever

but it hurts to be here today.

-///- it’s quiet, i’m tired.

[stilltenseaboutit]

love as glowing eyes in the dark. love as nails filed to points. love as watchful and waiting. love as hider of bodies. love as beautiful flowers with poisonous seeds.

love as chases and hunting. love as blood in the teeth. love as grip too tight, rustles in the underbrush, instinct, reaction. love as devotion, kept waiting. love as earth and water.

love as choice. love as weaving. love as palm on the nape of the neck. love as return. love as knife against despair. love as needle and thread for deep wounds, as water for thirst and aching. demands and answers, a thing in your rib cage, beating like a heart.

love as softness. love as patience. love as vicious, as force. love as belonging, possession, the quiet. love as tribute taken and received.

love as home carved out of nothing. love as walls of straws and clay. keeping watch by a fire. love as boundless, uncivilized, gnashing. let off leash and choosing to stay. love as marks and heat and endurance. love as eyes that speak. love as endless, in the third world, the fourth, the fifth. katsina take it into the heart of the reed. to the water and the corn. like the heat of the mesa sun.   

-///- feral. grey.b.

[catchymemes]

[shiny-good-rock]

do you ever think about dead versions of yourself that are fossilized in someone else's mind

[shiny-good-rock]

i see that this one kind of fucked everyone up

[somepiecesofmyheartandsoul-deac]

So what did they do? Did they make you love yourself a little more or did they make you throw yourself away?

Lukas W. // Coffee thoughts #92 (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)

[stilltenseaboutit]

i built peace for myself in the hush of sand through my fingers, the trace of wind on the back of my neck, the simple act of braiding hair. i can press my palm to the bark of an old tree and feel the relief of lifetimes. i am distracted by the peace i have found in others, it is new to feel safe outside my body as well as in it, but don’t forget, do not let yourself forget —

you made yourself into something fearsome, with your own bones and tears and blood. if you are bewitching, it is because you built yourself an enchantment. this fear, this stretch of trials, this is not all there is. this is not all you are, all you will be. this pain is an act of creation. you are making something of yourself. 

-///- i put a spell on you. grey.b

[rohie-deactivated20191102]

“The low-maintenance woman, the ideal woman, has no appetite. This is not to say that she refuses food, sex, romance, emotional effort; to refuse is petulant, which is ironically more demanding. The woman without appetite politely finishes what’s on her plate, and declines seconds. She is satisfied and satisfiable.

A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite is always voracious: her hunger always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist. If she wants food, she is a glutton. If she wants sex, she is a slut. If she wants emotional care-taking, she is a high-maintenance bitch or, worse, an “attention whore”: an amalgam of sex-hunger and care-hunger, greedy not only to be fucked and paid but, most unforgivably of all, to be noticed.”

— Hunger Makes Me, Jess Zimmerman

[stilltenseaboutit]

so i stay in bed until four and cry myself a migraine, a tempest, a soggy pillow. i burn the new candles i bought, i reach out to every person i love and trust and they reach back in their messy, myriad ways.

i eat cold soup. i make cookies for dinner. i jump and panic and flap my hands and put on sad music and stomp around and stare at the wall and reach out to every person i love and trust, though the list grows smaller and smaller.

i water plants. i vibe to grunge. i paint my nails black. i sleep too much. i clutch pillows, feel hollow, try to feel every ridge of my own finger when i take my own hand.

i'm all alone. still trapped, still waiting. still scared to trust myself. i reach out to every person i love and trust. even you. all this heartache, and still. even you.

-///- grains of falling sand ii. grey.b.

[wnq-writers]

You’ll meet a hundred different people who will describe you in a hundred different ways, don’t dwell too much on the kind of impression you make. Remember, there are a thousand paintings of the sun, but only one that rises and sets each day.

Ekta Somera (via wnq-writers)

[stilltenseaboutit]

i will still believe in you. when you falter. when you tremble. when you question. every step backwards, every mistake, every failure. every fall. i will still believe in you. 

i will always, always believe.

-///- grains of falling sand. grey.b.

[allured-aesthetic-deactivated20]

Do you ever wonder what about you isn’t good enough for people to stay and fight for?

[jehovahhthickness]

I am worth the effort.

[stilltenseaboutit]

this spinning place has completed another course around the sun, and i, strung out, exhausted, feel the sadness slip away. leave this year of rot behind you, unwrap its hands from your throat. 

-///- i have my entire life ahead of me. grey.b

[stilltenseaboutit]

empty, windswept, arid. desert land too long untouched by rain. cracked clay and bleached silt. empty valleys devoid of life. lines of loss. baked then browned then scorched. carbon dust. silica sliding. blinding white of half buried bones.

heavy. tremulous. cold and muffled. trapped, locked in. fracturing, cracking, scarred by endless rifts. severed from gravity. glacial. frigid. blue too bright to look at. origin too old to fathom. unmoored. untethered. lost.

tired. ancient. unprepared. 

isolated. adrift. exhausted. 

inconsequential. abandoned. alone. 

-///- another aftermath. grey.b

[stilltenseaboutit]

There is a man with a knife to my throat. He's terrorized me, followed me, isolated me, stabbed me before, and I've barely survived. I have asked him to stop, begged him, pleaded, said anything and everything he could want to hear, but there is still a man with a knife to my throat. I've seen him terrorize strangers, loved ones, mirror images of me. I still have the wounds from trying to help them, I can still see them littered along the road you walked up to get to this point. You stepped over their blood, skirted their corpses, are standing there watching this. You are telling me that it makes you uncomfortable that I'm not calm, rational, agreeable. You are telling me that there is no knife. You are telling me that my resistance is the same as his violence.  There is a man with a knife to my throat. My hands are empty, wet with the blood of others he has hurt, holding my wounded body together, bent into claws of resistance. When I fight, when I bite and kick and scream, I will not be the same as him. If I get the knife and stab him, I will not be the same as him. There is a man. He has a knife to my throat. And you are doing nothing. -///- privilege. grey.b