"Oh how we forget
that everything is a choice
and we can decide."

Lime tree.

The first time this one boy said the words to me I was sneaking out of his bedroom at 4am, dehydrated from weed and coke. My mouth dry and my stomach empty. I open the bedroom door and looked back as I was stepping out into the hallway. Pausing for a moment in hopes those small seconds meant more opportunity.
His bed was on the floor then. Blue and grey sheets, rarely cleaned. Usually disheveled and stained.
Upright in his bed, I can’t even tell you how it happened. I must have said something endearing, or worth a “thank you”. In that exact moment, I remember feeling like I won something. Like, a bunch of lottery tickets that finally paid off. I was more excited about finally getting payback for all the hell and self abuse I put myself through to hear those fucking words, I didn’t even give validation to the fact that he still loved someone else, and he was also on drugs.

I find myself amused and embarrassed of the person I was at 12. Or even 19 for that matter. Different character, same sap story. “Loving” things that were in my imagination returned to me nothing tangible at all. I remember being 12 and sitting with my dad, nearly sobbing with heartache on the couch of the girlfriend I knew he simply fucked and depended on. I was trying to get him to understand that I loved someone that wasn’t of this world. He defended a different point, explaining whatever I felt certainly wasn’t love. He told me “love means people are on the same page”. I thought he was wrong and hypocritical my whole life.

I no longer feel that way.


Still, that love I described that day felt more real than anything I’ve ever felt at 12 years old. Searching for something significant that could live inside myself when I knew it was shelter for no one. Ugly and unnoticed. Incomplete and inferior. Fat and disgusting. I cringe at anyone describing me as looking for a pity party. That party has no use in a voiceless silent empty room.

Is love obsession? Is love overpowering fire deep within your stomach that races to your fingertips? Is it cum worth swallowing and tears worth crying over? Does it ache inside you with expectations and phone checking?
Terror and confusion. Begging and pleading and finding yourself empty in your car at 3am.
Passive aggressive and influential, challenging your meaning of life. Conditional.
Conditional and flighty.

No.

Fear is not the heart of love.

All I’ve known is what I’ve seen.
Now I feel like I know nothing.
A bottomless pit that was filled with the darkest blacks or blinding light opens up to the world and it’s now my responsibility to fill it with grey.

I repeat,
Fear is not the heart of love.

I don’t want to look back
I don’t want to look back
I don’t want to look back
I don’t want to look back

But I always look back.

If I’m a flame, I’m a forest fire
speaking savage tongues as I emerge from the hills.
I am an avalanche.
I am unchained.
I’m awoken.
I’ll unleash hell.
So I roar, pin back my ears, and stone by stone I’ll tear it all, I’ll tear it apart.

Is our skin to keep the world out or our bodies in?
This doesn’t look like home; this doesn’t look like home.

osjecam:

sorry i’m late, professor. im disenchanted with the human experience and waking up every morning thrusts me into an instant existential crisis

(via aphroditeinfurs)