Kalya

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[ylaka]

“I love you. It's the worst possible thing I could do to you. But I do.”

– The Rape of Proserpina by Gian Lorenzo Bernini/ Lydia Yakovlevna Timoshenko (1903–1976)

[ylaka]

Doing with them everything you've done to me. I feel horrible sometimes, but at least no one can hurt me like you once did.

[ylaka]

Sometimes I think about all the bad things you've ever said to me and I can't understand why I can't hate you.

[ylaka]

When are we gonna talk about the loneliness and the melancholy about being an only child, growing up all alone?

[ylaka]

"My own bones have grown into a prison, lonely as Naxos — my blood is the Styx."

- José Royo / Ron Hicks, 1965 / Marina Tsvetaeva, Bride of ice: New Selected Poems.

[antigonick]

“HADES : Tell them that you weren’t hungry, tell them you followed the pomegranates seeds because they tasted like blood, like love.”

— Pauline Albanese, The Closed Doors

[ylaka]

The silence... The absence of sound is maddening, the void is present as if it were everything that ever existed. The streets, once so crowded and busy, are abandoned as if even the Sun itself had forgotten to cast its rays of light upon them. it's still day but darkness seems to have taken possession of the city that has long been forgotten. I walk these desolate streets alone as I always have, even before life fades, I see empty buildings and abandoned cars waiting to be used, waiting to be useful again. Feelings of despair and anguish hit me like a moving train, I feel my knees give out under the weight of my body, suddenly I'm curled up on the floor hugging my legs. I have just realized that neither the city nor the buildings nor the cars have been forgotten because I remember them and see them, but I am the only one who is not seen or remembered. I was long forgotten. I start to doubt my own existence, if I really am who I am and if I really am part of the world, because if no one remembers me how would I exist? I do not exist.

[brightbeautifulthings]

“She had walked willingly into a fairy tale, into a world where she could trade her heart for her freedom. She may as well have donned a red cloak and strode into a darkened forest. She had always known there would be wolves.”

— Emily Lloyd-Jones, The Hearts We Sold

[twinnedpeaks]

two devils, salem s.

[ylaka]

Li-Young Lee from Folding a Five-Cornered Star So The Corners Meet. // Maya Phillips, Sometimes my father Is a roaming hunger. // Aaron Smith, ruined. // It lingers for your whole life, Katie Maria. // Uncle Phranc, Team Dresch.

[thoughtkick]

“I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

[ylaka]

Maria Kreyn, Alone Together

[sweatermuppet]

from why poetry can be hard for most people by dorothea lasky, published in rome

[Text ID: why poetry can be hard for most people. because speaking to the dead is not something you want to do. /End ID]

[ylaka]

J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the rye

[ritikajyala]

Last night, I told my mother "I wish I was dead" in a fit of rage and winter clouded her eyes. But it wasn't white and it wasn't quiet, it resembled something like helplessness and rage. She was in pain and I knew I hurt her. I wanted to say something, anything, but how do you withdraw a declaration of war? How do you stop the bombs that already destroyed homelands? In that moment I remembered how she always told me that when she was a kid, she was too afraid to sleep with the lights on. Not because she was afraid of monsters, but because she feared her grandmother would die. Because when you're a kid, not seeing it means it doesn't exist anymore. I saw the winter in her eyes again and I knew I had switched off the light, she wasn't angry, she was afraid.

And I also remembered how she always told me I'd always be 3 years old for her, always a child, and for the first time, I heard in the voice of a three year old "I wish I was dead". My heart broke. And I wanted to hug her and hold her, tell her I was sorry, that I didn't mean it. Before I could move a hand, she left the room. The entire evening, I saw myself as she saw me, a 3 year old child. I saw the child hurt herself and cry herself to sleep every week, fight her friends with her tiny hands and two ponytails, I saw her depression and her anxiety, I saw her yell "I wish I was dead" and I knew. I knew. I wanted to shout through the walls, yell and cry and tell my mother that now I KNEW, but I didn't. I wept and wept until I heard a quiet knock and a soft familiar voice whispered, "Dinner is ready".

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[ylaka]

Don't try to be the reader of something unreadable

[222mirrorballs]

Little Women, Greta Gerwig / fifteen, Taylor Swift / Persuasion, Leonard Campbell / Sky full of song, Florence + the Machine / Á nos amours, Maurice Pialat

[ylaka]