Is it written? I'd like a copy.
It’s written. Gotta sell it first, though.
You?
Cosimo Galluzzi

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@the-redefined-definition
Is it written? I'd like a copy.
It’s written. Gotta sell it first, though.
You?
Forfuckingreal.
— Franz Kafka
I’m rewatching one of my favorite shows. One I watched religiously when we tried—and failed—to balance the seesaw of our relationship.
Curious, I looked you up.
We’re both married now. Not to each other—obviously. That no I answered with resounding clarity echoes over time. Sometimes I wonder why I never regretted my answer, and sometimes I wonder if you ever regretted asking. Then I remember that friend’s marriage we went to witness, that hotel room we argued in after—both no longer exist.
I just celebrated five years with this man I couldn’t have conjured if the god you believe in gave me the power to create the person I thought was best for me.
I don’t know how long you’ve been with your person. But you look happy—truly happy.
That’s all I ever wanted for us.
Time really did tell, didn’t it?
Maybe it’s time to delete this blog.
Nah.
There’s a time and place for graveyards.
Them: so, what inspired you to write the book?
Me, nonchalantly: childhood trauma
Them: …
Me: it’s cheaper than therapy
Them: …
Me: tough crowd *shrugs and sips tea*
ask polly
Fuck it all
A thin line.
Want may share a thin line with need
but there is one difference.
Want doesn’t compromise;
it’s either there
or it isn’t.
I always thought I saw clear.
Turns out, I always needed glasses.
Fydoror Dostoevsky // Clarice Lispector
Marya Hornbacher // Maya Angelou
People aren't homes, they never will be. People are rivers, always changing, forever flowing. They will disappear with everything you put inside them.
~ Nikita Gill
what are your twenties if not an endless string of the ghosts of who you thought you would become
“I burned memories of you to the ground but kept the ashes. Even in their most unwanted form, blackened thoughts of you will always be of value to me.”
— Noor Shirazie, Into the Wildfire: Mourning Departures
“I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box … All night dark wings flopping in my heart. Each an ambition bird.”
— Anne Sexton, “The Ambition Bird,” The Complete Poems (Houghton Mifflin, 1981)
Engaged Love.
It’s like the first strong breeze
breaking through
summer’s reign.
Autumn always was my season,
I knew I’d pick someone
who brewed through it.
He’s cold like February
but warm like laughter
bouncing off the vegetables
at the grocery store.
How tender time is now
that I’m not rushing to close
in on it.