wow i wanna love myself like extremely pleasing typefacing i wanna love myself like enjoyed this post i made a little art about it i wanna love myself like the little flags on the letter t love to curl themselves against their base i want to love myself like hold on mom, it's a good reason i'm crying
i don't wanna love myself like "buy this feel good". i wanna love myself like i made a sandwich for later because i knew i'd be too busy. i wanna love myself like hang on take a breath do you actually like this. i wanna love myself like okay we're gonna set a reminder to get up and brush our teeth. i wanna love myself like - it's okay to say no, it's okay to take that nap, it's okay to go home.
i don't wanna feel sexy like tv. i don't wanna feel sexy like little black dress. i wanna feel sexy like high note during karaoke. like just got done writing 14 pages of poetry. like let me show you this scarf i've been knitting. i wanna feel sexy like hand on the back of the headrest while you parallel park. like did i tell you about that time i saved a baby bird. like don't tell her but i've been sneaking money into her purse.
i don't wanna feel pretty like expensive. like high fashion. like paid to be here. i wanna feel pretty like a bird in a puddle. i wanna feel pretty like streak of dyed hair. i wanna feel pretty like calligraphy, like new leaves, like a skinned knee bleed, like a dog running at full speed. i wanna feel pretty like lying next to you. i wanna feel pretty like the new album just dropped, i wanna feel pretty like a shower, i wanna feel pretty like a stone wall all covered in moss.
i keep saying body neutrality. that feels negative - no bad things, no good things, just body. but i mean - my body is neutral like a flower is neutral like an oil slick is neutral like a day is neutral, too. my body is neutral so a kiss can feel like lightning so a dance can feel like a hula hoop so a walk to get coffee can feel like - god, i'm so happy to just be around you.
my body is a site. not the source of the joy, just where i can find it. i don't wanna love like - finally got my body tight/forced myself through a diet/whatever trend is the current hype. i wanna love myself like - i go to this river and i find gold every time i shift around inside it. i wanna love myself like - i feel sexy because it's sexy to be alive, and laughing. i wanna love myself like - bitch, i could have died, and i didn't, and if that isn't the prettiest almost in the whole world, than i don't know what is.
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I hope this ask finds you in relatively okay spirits. Ran across your Watch post, (it was very beautifully written, by the way) and felt like I had to ask, are you doing a bit better nowadays? I'm not sure how old that post is, but I can only hope you've found yourself in better conditions.
ah yeah it was specifically the watch section of a store on-property at walt disney world. i was working through their college program.
they would book us less than 8 hours between shifts during the holidays, but would make sure to shortchange us 15 minutes so they didn't have to pay triple overtime. we were expected to be "changed and onset" (present and on the actual floor) by our "start time" - so we were expected to do a lot off the clock.
they ran us, effortlessly, into the ground. we were being charged 600 dollars a month for a 2-bed apartment that they fit six people into. (Each of us had to pay 600 dollars. For a 2-bed apartment with 6 occupants). they owned the buildings outright, and didn't have to charge rent. we were not allowed to drink water "on set" at my location (ie where a customer could see us). i once got written up because i had been crying and my eyeliner had smudged a little and it looked "unprofessional". they checked our sock colors. that man with a yacht that i mentioned in the post? he was the lead manager of the location, and a complete bag of dicks. i am not the only person he terrorized, and more than once i heard him complaining about women wearing "the right kind of bra". (he checked). who are you going to tell that to? in disney, if you complain, you are the problem. there is not an "hr". there is just - shut up and take it, because someone else would love to work here.
this is not in any way surprising to any person that has worked for disney. a significant percent of disney's employees live out of their cars, which has lead to deaths due to overheating in the florida summers. i worked 11 hour shifts and would make 110 dollars a day. Six days of back-to-back working, and i'd make rent, which went right back to disney. take out taxes. take out medical bills. take out internet. take out the cost of transportation. take out school expenses. what i am left with at the end of the month: pasta. tuna. rice.
disney is anti-union and an entire powerhouse with legislative abilities. they have constantly lobbied the florida government to keep minimum wage extremely low. they do not allow union talk, even on your private social media. they are staunchly, horrifically well-equipped to blacklist you if you aren't their perfect little mickey godchild. they have an enormous amount of power. do you want to work as a journalist? disney controls many major news stations. do you want to work in hospitality? turns out disney actually owns many hotel companies. do you want to work anywhere, at any time? good news! disney has a stakehold in it.
i wanted to be a writer. it is not surprising that i thought the college program would be a really good way for me to grow my resume and to help me get familiar with the company that controls a massive amount of the writing industry. despite hundreds of comments telling me "oh, you should have just quit and got a different job", i was, unequivocally, trying to do the "right thing". i was a college kid who was trying to put herself through this industry so i could "bootstrap" myself. i was getting my degree at the same time. i was just "putting in the work". i was following the steps. i also believed i just-needed-to-survive-this, and then i'd be able to "get a real job." except that if i quit, i would be blackballed in a corporation that legitimately controls the professional sector of what i want to do.
there are tons of videos of people being like "i worked for disney and this is what it's like!!" and the truth is that many of those people keep it kind of light. me naming them is me risking immediate action on their behalf - disney is notoriously litigious, and they will blacklist you for talking up. think about the fact they fucking fired scarlett johansson. people who worked there know they can't do anything about it - what power do i have, against multi-media monopoly disney-fucking-world? it seems that every time disney workers strike, the news of it is immediately swept under the rug. every time. no change occurs.
working at disney was worse than i wrote about in that post. there are things that happened that aren't even mentioned in this post, because they seem so fucking far-fetched. and it's just... what it's like to work there.
disney does not give a shit about its employees. their response to the pandemic has highlighted this, underlined it, and made it an official ruling. they demand fucking cult-levels of participation and cheer. when i wrote in that post that i am the reason they made money, it's because every disney worker is the reason that disney makes money. the thing that makes disney world a good vacation spot is legitimately the thousands of workers who are constantly just trying to "make magic". the people i met there were genuinely some of the sweetest, kindness, most hard-working individuals i've ever come in contact with. and to repay them for their dedication, grit, and genuine desire to brighten lives: disney is a fucking monster right back to them.
by the way. don't buy a watch from disney. matter of fact, i don't recommend that you buy any items on disney property - try the walmart down the street. all their products (for walmart distribution and for on-property distribution both) are made in the same factories with the same materials. you're paying 200 dollars for a watch that could be sold by walmart for 20. it is just not good-quality materials. i've seen how many break before we even got them.
my life is much better. the semester after this happened, i graduated undergrad summa cum laude. i just completed my master's degree.
i work full time in a completely different industry. i don't want to work in writing. not if it means working for disney.
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in rare moments, it's particularly pleasing to be called a bitch. you are standing there and the dude is fuming because you won't let him take home someone too drunk to stand. you are standing there and not letting karen yell at the barista about the mask policy and this lady absolutely wants to kill you so badly.
standing there and you're objectively, 100%, doing-the-right thing - and you're a bitch! and it's kind of like - you know what, thank you, i am a bitch right now. now you got my hackles up, bark bark. you are standing there, telling this asswipe of a person not to be a bigot - that if things have to get hairy, they will get hairy like a wolf. you've been good for a lot of your life! very well-behaved. your teachers called you a delight once. you get nervous ordering takeout over the phone.
but right now you're a bitch! you are wearing someone else's skin. you are not a name, a person. just a bitch. and it's well and truly freeing. it's rare - very - but it happens to hit just-right. and you're standing there with your ears roaring from adrenaline and you're like, oh. i'm a bitch! i'm a bitch! i'm being a huge fucking bitch! and now, my love! i'm gonna be your big fucking bitch of a problem!
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if i caught it before it got out of my mouth it wouldn't poison anyone but me. i smell like vomit. i smell like defeat. i want to rot into this white seat and i want to take my insurance agency with me.
i want to pull on my tongue until i unravel my belly. i keep writing the same four things and none of them are going to make my mom happy.
it turns out you can believe all you want, babygirl. the contamination is gonna spill out of you in a soft, shiny glow. no matter how much you print it backwards, it's still your name. stand up under the weight of it and suffer, prophet. carry that golden mantle. carry that catskull in your body and burn your body on the shipmast.
carry yourself , reeking, to your own bedside. take the helm of your hollow jaw and rip yourself asunder, skin to sinew and back again.
i can't eat. i can't look god in the eye. i can't sleep. i can't stop shaking. i can't believe. i can't find it. i usually can find it, but i can't find it, and i no longer feel like looking. i can't find it! i can't find it! do you remember what i saw? can you tell me what it was shaped like? can you describe the scene of the accident. can you pretend nobody was crying.
i can't find it. i can't find it. i can't see.
hey mom, i'm just calling to say i love you. and, uh. thank you for raising me.
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1. teen gothic is a bitemark i left on the floor of the mall where i saw derrick ash his bong into the potted monstera . when i tripped over the hem of my jeans, i looked up to find the mall completely empty. nothing but a mirrored jc penny wall with unflattering lighting. do you like yourself? the mirror asked me. i told it: i'm sorry. i think i left my mom waiting. i read teen gothic on your bed, skipping to the horoscopes, knowing yours without asking.
2. we heard a bird we didn't know the name of. later you'd be in the middle of making dinner and say - who taught me bird names to begin with.
3. when we went to college together you watched my mom hand over the dorm keys, worried she hadn't taught me enough life skills. later i would iron my jeans using a hair straightener. there's nothing quite like desperation to revive ingenuity.
4. we stole the chapstick from claires but later i'd get an ulcer worried i was gonna go to jail about it.
5. hold your hand in the supermarket. hold your hand during the movie. hold your hand and say - oh, i'm just doing this because it's comforting.
1. [area/region] Gothic
4. Sour apple
5. Dangerous game
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come home. they sit on the stoop where their grandfather used to work the gas station but is now a k-mart but is now a burned-out k-mart and they smoke clovers and hang their too-long hands over their knees and ask you - how's it going?
is it better up there? you want to know.
they squint their little eyes, all one-million of them, up at the clouds coming over the nebraska burned-out kmart-7/11 and they say
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Sweet love, what are your biggest creative inspirations? How do the words just flow from you? I long to feel such passion for words and write in those ways. Sending you love and love and love.
i love u but this is not accurate to my experience. i love u but i don't feel that way. i love u but. i am rarely excited to write.
that's the whole secret. i taught myself to sit down and do it anyway. writing is a craft, not just a hobby. in the same way musicians sit down and make themselves run scales - writers need to sit down and just-write-something.
"but it's bad". so what? you don't need to sell it. it just needs to exist so your muscles warm up.
"i have nothing left to say." me neither. i ran out of things to say about 10 years ago.
"i don't know what to do here!" there isn't a right answer. you are leaning in to that feeling, not away from it.
"i hate what i've made." yeah, that happens. keep going anyway. you don't need to like it, you just need to do it.
our brains are plastic and every time we do this, we train ourselves a little bit better. we might not be able to say exactly why we hated something we wrote, but if you write 40 things you hate, your brain starts forming a picture in your subconscious - maybe you actually only like to write about feathers. maybe you're not really into prose. maybe you like gardens. whatever.
and it makes you bored. that's the most important thing. it makes you super, horribly bored. and then you write anyway. writing bored is often annoying but it is also super important. because your brain is going to start looking for new things to say and do. and then , there you go - suddenly you're writing something fun and wild.
and if that doesn't come for a year? whatever. you have had a year of practice. of writing without the wings of inspiration. when it does come, you'll be able to push through parts that would have otherwise stopped you - because you haven't been stopped by worse conditions. you'll have a more interesting language scheme, you'll have a sense of your own style, you'll have a better grasp on body language... and it feels amazing. it's like. taking off the weights around your ankles.
without that year of practice? of slogging? you don't have those muscles. so the first time inspiration sort-of flags, you find yourself unable to finish your writing. or it's not "good enough" so you stop. or you don't love a paragraph, so you stop.
with the year of bad writing, you're like - i don't even care about that stuff, i've made worse, let's keep going. you can make yourself do it.
artists do studies and try different styles. singers do voice lessons and try different genres. dancers put in hours at the gym and then hike to rehearsal. the thing about art is that it is difficult and not all of it is going to come from a place of harmony and passion. it's just about gritting your teeth and grinding through it.
because when you do finally get it? yeah, dude. i promise it's worth it.
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the thing capitalists often can't understand about media is that it does not entirely function in the same way a commodity does. people are interested in art - in tv, in movies, in writing - because of the questions that are asked, because of the characters that arrive in the situations, because of what makes the story new.
will we often be drawn to the same genres or themes? sure. but we come to those themes because we're interested in seeing what can be resolved from them. there are a lot of ways to explore a concept in writing, and we're tuning in because we are invested in the how of it being resolved. sure, it's another exploring-space fiction - but this one is more focused on the how of communication barriers. it's another supernatural romance - but this one is about the how of culture and difference and resolving conflict.
it feels like capitalism is like - okay, we've figured out the recipe! we'll capitalize on your nostalgia of [old, thoughtful product] and we'll add [element of current popular product], and we won't actually think about any other part of it. what do you mean we are supposed to love the original or at least pay homage to it? what do you mean that "gritty" isn't an actual genre? this is your childhood beloved show, but it's got the same violence warning as a current show you also like! and it's color graded so you can't see the screen! therefore, it's a better version of both shows!
we were interested in the original often because it was answering or resolving something new-for-the-time, or did it in an interesting way. right now capitalist media just rolls out six versions of the same fucking thing in the hopes that it will work like cereal flavors and you'll choose-them-all. but media is an different kind of investment. at the store, you can be like - sure, whatever, i'll try the new flavor of fanta. but sitting down to watch the new gritty [whatever] is a whole lot of time with very little promise of payoff.
human interest is something capitalists are desperately trying to force into being a commodity, but realistically (and im sure infuriating to them), it's not something that can be a commodity, because it's not something that can be guaranteed to be generated. ads can try all they want, i'm not interested. you cannot create a "need" for violent historical fantasy shows because it would be misunderstanding why the original popular product was popular to begin with. there was never a need. media doesn't work like that.
which is kind of funny. because if they ever, like, spoke to an artist and said - what the fuck is it, how do you actually spark interest? we've tried doing the same thing that they liked the first time but they just don't care about it anymore!! why!!!
the answer is probably something like - just do something new.
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one of the things that media can get so wrong about sibling relationships is that even when you're getting along it's like. "im actively trying to end you right now you fucking nastyass" as a form of affection
& that there is a secret, 12th dimensional emotion behind the following experiences:
oh we were not supposed to break that. we are agreed, right? we are Sworn To Take This To The Grave. the Dog Did it.
we are awake at hours we are Not Supposed to be, & doing Crime
"i know we were in a fight 2 seconds ago but do you want any pasta i made too much and i don't want to waste it. asshole."
the specific, entirely unhinged cruelty that erupts out of you when you find out someone messed with your sibling. any additional siblings, upon hearing the news, are immediately similarly incensed to near-rabies and now your threat has evolved into a Promise.
the impossible confluence of events that happens when all siblings have EXACTLY the same Evil Thought at the same time and do something entirely buckwild as if on cue . like. the lord jesus just plants the idea to start linedancing in a serious conversation and you're all like. yep it's time to yeehaw and box step.
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there is a very strange idea that exists that we are ill by choice; that we have never tried to get better. i have been told to climb mountains or swing from trees or learn to cope silently. i have been told about yoga, about crash dieting, about using extra pillows or less sugar, about deleting my social media, about being more adventurous, about parties i should attend, about books to read, places to travel, people to kiss, dresses to buy. that all of these individually could be the cure, or maybe if i mix them right i could wake up indestructible.
the thing that kills me is i’ve always tried it. i’ve done it. i’ve already used and overused physical activity to marginalize anxiety. i’ve eaten nothing but vegan organic solutions and i’ve also treated myself to everything fattening. i’ve done yoga and i’m good at it but i’m bad about keeping sugar-free. i deleted my social media, tried not having toxic friends, read self-help books about being a better person. i went to the parties, i dressed up nicely and smiled broadly, i studied harder in anticipation for when i couldn’t study at all, i wore bright colors or stayed out in the rain a second longer. i grew plants and pet dogs and tried it all.
when you are bad, it isn’t a matter of changing your attitude, of mind over matter. why would i do something when it doesn’t make me feel happy. it’s hard to get up the energy enough as it is, why bother when it fills me with numbness? the fact of the matter is that i go so cold i could hold the sun without burning. that’s what it is. i could be doing everything perfectly. i could be doing only my favorite things. it doesn’t make it go away. healing just takes time and patience. i grit my teeth and survive it.
stop assuming in my life i’ve never tried. i made it this far. you can be damn sure i’ve sampled every silly magazine cure and more. you’re not witnessing someone who just began the fight. you’re witnessing a seasoned warrior in battle and telling them you suggest using a knife.
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Some deleted excerpts from the reading I am doing tonight for the 2021 Tell It Slant Poetry Festival. It's an event-exclusive poem so it will be one night only! (9.24.21)
This event is free and also a very cool way of supporting young poets! You can register for it by clicking here.
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In my class we have a worm day. If they promise to be gentle and not tug, they can hold one of those beautiful squiggly caretakers of dirt. The wonder they have for it is so real - and I say, did you know they have 5 hearts and love you with all of them. Then I say, “are you holding a boy worm or a girl worm” and they guess. They are all right, and they are all wrong, because worms are both. And I say that. I say, “they are just like people; sometimes not a boy or a girl but something in between, or sometimes they’re both on different days. And they still love you with all 5 hearts.” “Cool,” says one kid. “I don’t want to be a boy, I want to be a girl sometimes.” And I say okay. Children are taught fear. They are taught that the worms are gross. It isn’t until they’re a few years older than my class - up in 3rd or 4th grade - that they start shrieking at my little worm friends. They won’t play the silly games or sing the silly songs or even promise not to tug. A fourth grader hears my lesson about gender and says, “That’s so weird,” and suddenly I hear from the mouths of these beautiful children, “Yeah,” “this is weird,” “No, mine is a girl.” It is not the 4th grader I blame. It is the person in her life that saw something beautiful and ruined it for her. It is the “put that down, it’s gross,” “you don’t want to get dirty” “there’s us and there’s them.” I want to show her - without the humble little blind noses of worms, we are nothing. We need them. Did you know if they grow a belt they’re over a year old! Spent tunnelling through the secrets of roots. I want to show her: it’s okay if tomorrow you feel like a boy or maybe something neither, something different that is entirely you. But fear, once discovered, is not an easy stain to get out. We say, “What will we tell the children” and forget - the children already heard. They heard you snickering about the person down the street. They saw you talking to your friend about “those people”. And they internalize it, burrow it into them. We don’t tell the children, we model hatred until the children can’t hear you, can’t hear you declare, “do as I say, not as I do.” Later the 4th grader goes home. “Ugh,” her mother says with a shudder, seeing my box, “I hate worms.”
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okay i have no tumblr loyalty (ew) but as an environmentalist it's like so weird to see tumblr-specific memes out in the world on other social media platforms.
i'm thinking specifically of the children's hospital color theory meme - in order for other social media sites to "get" the joke they have to include a screenshot of the whole series of original posts. while i understand the draw of exotic pets, i need others to understand these are not tank-safe memes; they're specifically grown and adapted to the absolutely rancid bioculture of this website, and should not be removed from their habitat. & like i've seen "do you love the color of the sky" & "world heritage post" & that "Sexy English Teacher" post - shoved out of their respective, supremely specific habitats. they immediately lose color and vibrancy, and it's tragic.
and it's so sad to see because these are some very specific fungi that are representational to the ecosystem which they have originally found root in . i'll grant you that many memes can survive with nominal site-to-site transfer (although audience reliability in these cases often shortens lifespans even for deep-rooted systems - human influence, as-per-usual), but the onsite, long-term survival of these memes is rooted in tumblr's horrible, stinky wasteland. "imagine how touch is the sky" and "reblog to get me a chicken" are so site-specific that any contact with outside air causes immediate collapse of the cellular walls so important to keeping tumblr contained.
and while desiccation of a meme is just tedious to witness, i am mostly concerned with the exposure of the outside world to these highly radioactive viscera of our little cretinous planet. the majority of us have unfortunately been here longer than we'd like to admit and our stay has made us somewhat invulnerable to the absolutely hazardous material being sponged out of the pores of this blue hell. mind you: i do not like actively admitting i still have a tumblr, much less participate in the culture of it, so i've hated writing this post, but it's worthwhile to mention that these incredibly delicate systems of life might flourish as invasive species on other sites - but realistically, they will just cause harm before they vanish in a puff of poisonous gas.
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we watched portrait of a lady on fire. she'd had a long week, and fell asleep in my lap. i turned the sound down so it wouldn't wake her, and watched the subtitles in the dark - feeling her heartbeat, hearing her sigh in her sleep, her blonde hair spilled over one pink cheek.
she woke up for a moment while they were discussing euripides. i told her what was happening, and she curled closer to me while i whispered as if we could be heard - he turns to look at her.
the movie, silent, playing through an off-color projector onto her bedroom wall. she curls her fingers into mine and pushes the bridge of her nose deeper into my leg. in a few minutes, her breathing slows again. a little tiara of peace slowly beads over her skin.
i don't know what happens in the movie, really. i wasn't looking.
after the credits, she stirs and looks up at me, her hand taking the ends of my dark hair. she says - come, watch the end of my dreams with me.
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1. put the dog into the car and dial the phone and have the thought - once i talk to my mom and my therapist it's over for these hoes and have the thought - oh my god, i should make a twitter so i could post that, and have the thought -
2. make sure the dog is in the car. actually if i drive back through [ ] it would be funny if i saw [x] because i could be like, ha! look at me! the dog is in the car, i know it, the dog can smell blood rising in my throat. the dog is in the car, i can't stop peeling the back of my left thumb (will it scar?) and i would say -
3. try to find the words (for a while now) to say - oh, she was right, the best revenge is -
4. put the flowers down, they're too heavy. the stalks itch against my palm. it's colder today. the leaves changed, overnight. it's squash season again. they were sold out of chicken stock. i should write down -
5. stop for gas because i have been meaning to stop for gas because i am always fucking forgetting to stop for gas and stop, in general (just-stop. just-stop. just-). smooshing my brain up against the glass, working my fists through the sections of viscera that love dissolving. therapy is at noon. i try to collect the items i am supposed to do today, but i'm dripping all the elements of adulthood out of my right ear. really extremely egregiously adhd gets caught on a hook and now my brain is literally-singing it. i should remember that i have to call -
6. take a picture of the dog, in the car. i put the dog in the car, so i can go, because the dog is in the car. why did i get the flowers? i like that they're heavy, now, it's comforting. the dog is in the car, i didn't leave him at the park, i put the dog in the car, he's right here on my phone (him in the car is on my phone! a circle) and i am looking at the dog, in the car. did i bring my phone? i brought my phone but i could have left my phone if i had -
7. call mom. she agrees with me, the apartment just is too expensive. she asks me what i'm doing for the weekend, i try to cobble the plans i have memorized. i think maybe the fair? i think maybe apple picking? maybe we said -
8. park the car. close my eyes. tell myself the dog is on the phone and i can hear him in the back and i don't need to look because the dog is in the back of the car and i didn't leave him back there and i have the dog with me and the dog is sleeping soundly and that's why he's not in the mirrors and his little nose will be against his feet and i should really get on the road and keep moving because the dog is in the back of the car, this is so fucking stupid, nobody else has to -
9. don't look and don't look because if i look the dog won't be there, the dog will have run away, the dog won't be there, the dog is at the park, the dog won't be there and i leave things behind me because i smell like rotting blood and the dog can smell the blood (but the dog on my phone can't smell blood because i trapped him in the back seat on the phone) okay just don't look don't look if i look it will be already squash season and if i look the trees are turning colors and if i look -
Instead of going home I
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i don't quite have the words for it, but i fucking hate that post: "If he writes her a few sonnets, he loves her. If he writes her three hundred sonnets, he loves sonnets." there's similar versions of it everywhere: if you take pictures of someone too much, you like taking pictures, not the person. if you make them dinner every night, maybe you just like making dinner.
maybe - and this is true - love can be both. love can be - i'm good at this thing, and i love doing it, but i love you and it feels worthwhile to make it for you.
i take pictures of my friends so i can look at them later. i also love taking pictures, and i love my friends being in those pictures. i write her poems because i love writing poems, but she is why i love, and that makes love poems worth writing. i've made you something, because i love to make, and i love to make for you. i will invent and create and it will all be for you, because each time i think i can do it better.
who are you, to look at my motivations, to declare - i've done it, i've gotten to the heart of the matter - when instead you have ripped the heart right out of the matter entirely? love can be three hundred sonnets. it can be saying - i have only one way to express this, and i will do it, over and over again. i cannot get the image of you out of me.
how dismal, to live in a world where you believe there is a cap on how much love can be perceived. that the way any person loves is so shallow that it only survives if it hasn't undergone writing. that it can only outlast a few songs, and afterwards, the music is devoid of meaning.
i love you, i will do the dishes for you three hundred times - and i do not love it, i just love that it is easier for you. i love you, i will, if you let me, spend three hundred mornings drinking coffee next to you. and we can both love coffee, and love that it tastes different to drink coffee beside you, and love our mornings. i love you, i will write you three hundred sonnets if you want me to, but, as a warning - i'm not particularly good at rhyming.
capture love however you can. surround yourself in it. there are never enough memories. there is never enough time. there are never enough ways to hold onto it. write and make louder. i want your three hundred poems. i want to be loved so hard that you will spend hours on the sculpting of iambic pentameter. i want you to love without a horizon, so it stretches out so far around you that you cannot help but make, and sing, and mend.
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i thought everyone was kind of, a little bit... exaggerating. i had been in love, but it wasn't like that. the world was still just-the-world. the sky was lovelier next to them, yes, but love wasn't the awe i had heard about. it was deft and sly and beautiful - but i was sort of privately scornful of true love as a concept. i thought that poets are often full of drama - i'm a poet, after all. all the crying and sighing and world-shifting. i thought - nobody actually loses their appetite, nobody actually gets butterflies. people like to believe they're in love a lot, and the placebo effect will do things to you. no wonder other people lost sleep - i thought: well, that makes sense for them, but it is not going to happen for me.
and then i met her. and then it was real, and i knew something had opened that could never go back to sleep.
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