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I'm going to let everything hurt. I'm going to walk through the day like a bruise too aware of its own purples reds blues. I'm going to crawl into the source of the bleeding and become it. Why was I fighting so hard to avoid it?
Ahaha, well, I suppose because it stings like a motherfucker. But besides that. Besides that.
Bleeding is as natural as sleeping, as filling as eating, as important as touch. And just because I do it, it doesn't mean I've lost. I'm as competitive as a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers and somehow the core of me still thinks in terms of tallied wins and losses, mostly involving a skewed sense of what constitutes as a victory and a defeat.
Breathe breathe breathe: Your name is Hannah. Just because you have hands doesn't mean you have to use them to destroy all your good things. Your palms are going to hold the rest of you together for a little while. Just because they come away red doesn't mean you're finished. Your name is Hannah and if you are a wound, at least that means some part of you is open to the external world.
On learning kindness: it is okay to remain unstaunched.
On breathing: My name is Hannah. My eyes are heavy. My hands are wet and ruby and wry. And I'm ready to get up now.
observations of a girl out in the wild
guys it sucks out there i'm coming home.
moving on up (to the east side)
Okay--so maybe not moving up so much as moving elsewhere. Deviantart has been so very very lovely to me, treated me well, given me sanctuary and tucked me into bed more than once. But I think it's time to go.
For anyone who's curious (even though it's totally completely alright if you're not curious at all!) as to why I've emptied my gallery, that's pretty much it. Please keep in touch, humans I adore, and I will certainly do my best to meet you halfway.
my girl ain't bad (she more like evil)
Everything is one big ole mess of busy days. But it's lovely. And it twinges just right every so often. Cooking curry with Laura and being able to be friends with someone long enough that not even holding hands for an extended period of time--like through an episode of Arrow, for instance--does nothing but feel as comfortable as wearing the hats my grandma crochets for Christmas.
Here's all I got, written in the margins of my lecture notebooks:
Southern Lit, 2/3/14:
wolf girl is unable to
locate the heat, unable
to grip her beloveds;
it's been too long since
the forest. she can't
remember how to
scout for tracks.
.
French, 2/7/14:
wo
oh peter. can i go back home?
Things are as they ever were and they are also so incredibly different. And there are the little glimpses of exhaustion which burrow inside and then shatter. But I don't want to dig the shards out. Hera has been glassy-eyed and less stoic, and I have whispered, "Tired?" and her eyes have grown damp and she has whispered back, "I am tired," and her eyes don't even grow distant like they did before. No where else to run except into the nightgowns folded in her perfumed drawers.
And in the morning, before the quiet breaths slide the rest into waking, with one foot steel-toe booted and the other with a white sock sagging down his shin, I whisper
© 2014 - 2024 sleepysheepdog
Comments20
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Just because you have hands doesn't mean you have to use them to destroy all your good things.
I have a large poet-crush on you.
Your name is Hannah, and even though I don't know you that well, I think you're pretty amazing.
I have a large poet-crush on you.
Your name is Hannah, and even though I don't know you that well, I think you're pretty amazing.