Alex Dimitrov, from "Waiting at Stonewall", Love and Other Poems

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Alex Dimitrov, from "Waiting at Stonewall", Love and Other Poems
We live in a world where the funeral matters more than the dead, the wedding more than love and the physical rather than the intellect. We live in the container culture, which despises the content.
Eduardo Galeano
— Mallory Pearson, The Heaviest Rain We Ever Had
— Nitya Prakash
“Forgiveness is the best form of love. It takes a strong person to say sorry and an even stronger person to forgive.”
— Unknown
“Today I’ll be my own hero… I promise you today…Today, I will begin to save me.”
— Elizabeth Tapp
“I sat in the dark and thought: There’s no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones.”
— Neil Gaiman, Signal to Noise (via tolosemymemory)
“The broken will always be able to love harder than most. Once you’ve been in the dark, you learn to appreciate everything that shines.”
— Unknown
I'll close it from my side.
Richard Siken, from "Close"
“When people are ready, they change. They never do it before then, and sometimes they die before they get around to it. You can’t make them change if they don’t want to, just like when they do want to, you can’t stop them.” - Andy Warhol
Poetry is so healing
I think of being No Contact as a burnt-down house. It’s cold and empty, down to the charred, cracked foundations. I set the NC fire to cleanse, to burn, for warmth, because I needed something- a light, a torch, an ember. “When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.” When you’re raised in a house without warmth, you’ll burn everything down to feel anything at all. I think of NC as the packing before leaving, before the fire, before the red roar- Taking sentimental pieces, burdensome, baggage. I think of it as an unboxing, a burnt suitcase, a releasing of all. I think of the journey after NC as not building up from the foundations, But as a new plot entirely. A choice in decorating, A choice in what we can plant. Not rotten stumps and flaking flooring, Not the broken windows and immense clean-up, a fresh start. Something pristine, green, full of potential and love. Peaceful. I am not planting a garden of pain and misery on the bare-bones of my trauma- Oh- I will not do that to myself. I deserve the self-compassion of something new. Something for myself, unhaunted by the ghosts of an old dwelling in which I wilted, cold. I deserve a roaring fireplace, soft blankets, blooming flowers and strong-rooted trees.
“My mother declared herself dead. I buried her beneath my heart And out of the rottenness bloomed, Lilacs, Watered with tears of relief.”
— Mental illness takes lives without suicide.
Why must I become stronger?
Why can the world
Not become softer?
“When things really hurt you, they make you quiet.”
—