Tepid Water Dialogues

grossmidousuji:

"this is my favorite character i love him so much i want to see him distressed and in emotional pain (⊙ω⊙✿)”

*character undergoes distress and emotional pain* nO I TAKE IT BACK BABY PLEASE

I wish I could pull poetry from my bones
the way you pull a splinter from your finger,
but you poisoned my bones
and the infrastructure
that once held me up
is now crumbling down.
And everything around me is billowing to ash.

This is how Rome must have felt
as it burned to the ground.
Everything it once contained
now ash and smoke,
nothing to hold it together
and nothing to keep it safe.

My skin is no longer keeping out the world
it has cracked and dried
letting in the things I hid from for so long.
I can’t sew it back together,
the thread won’t hold
so I watch my body
as it unravels the stories it once told.

My hands do not move brushes across canvas
with apparent ease.
They shake like the earthquake
that destroyed Japan.
They splatter the paint around
and my mother just looks at me and asks
what happened to the stillness in my hands.

I wonder how the Earth felt
when the ground cracked open
and the land split apart.
I wonder how it felt as the oceans boiled
and resurfaced the world.

I imagine it felt similar to how I feel now.

"Everything hurts and I can’t make it stop"

Z

(via loserpoets)

theofficialariel:

All I have going for me is sarcasm, resting bitch face, huge thighs, and really good eyebrows. 

iguanamouth:

dang
Long-distance friendship 101

Long-distance friendship 101

Now we have a TV show called Girls, about girls who hurt but constantly disclaim their hurting…

These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect - these women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama so they stay numb and clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: don’t cry too loud, don’t play victim, don’t act the old role all over again. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt the other women on their examination tables. Post-wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it, more than anything they refuse to care about it, refuse to hurt about it - or else they are endlessly self-aware about the posture they have adopted if they allow themselves this hurting.

The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic. It’s full of jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick-on-the-heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, apathetic, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect. We have sewn ourselves up. We bring everything to the grindstone.

"The Empathy Exams" by Leslie Jamison

This is such an important book, but goddamn if this passage wasn’t the one that brought me to tears. We have been told and told ourselves we are no longer allowed to fully feel and express our pain and it is bullshit.

(via queeringfeministreality)

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947 (via hellanne)
That deerbutt thing is literally the creepiest thing I've seen in an age. Why would you share something like that ;_;

Because it was hilArious