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collection of posts for a very specific dynamic

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War

The Things They Carried - Tim O'Brien, Still Life with Fish - William Merritt Chase, Pompeii - Bastille, Tao Te Ching, Epiphany- Taylor Swift

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1, 6- “sexy to someone” (clairo) | 2 - “hunger” (florence + the machine) | 5 - “body” (wet) | 7 - “bitch” (allie x) [?] | 8 - nevada (imogen binnie)

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Enthralled by the creature of the lake.

Available as a print on my store!

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Frosty morning ❄️🌿

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X

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There's always time to rest by zandrapaints

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Some of my favorite quotes from Who will Run the Frog Hospital by Lorrie Moore

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On Being Kind

I’ve decided that I will be kind to myself today.

Not force myself to pretend to welcome an intrusion that scares me

Not turn myself to clay and let people mold and shape me however they please

Not let unkind eyes stare at me

Not throw myself to the wolves to be devoured in hopes that one of them will take me in

Not listen to you who tells me that I can only be loved conditionally

Not let my hands rest idly at my sides while my body screams to be held

I’ll stand up.

With shaking legs and wobbling knees

With every blemish on my skin facing the morning sun

With every wrinkle and scar you told me to hate

With open hands and an open mind

With all of the things that make me terrible

With all of the things that make me lovely

With every broken bone that needs healing

With my mouth open, gasping for air

And by god I’ll let myself scream.

I’ll scream so loud that I break the sound barrier

I’ll break off the chains that shackled me to the ground

I’ll refuse to dry my tears just because it causes you discomfort

I’ll make as much noise as I want

I’ll cry and scream and punch the floor

I’ll throw a tantrum

And maybe a party

I’ll let myself be ugly. Fucked up and unpleasant

To the stifled child inside of me,

I’m going to let the you have a voice that doesn’t critique your every move

I’m going to let you breathe

I’m going to let you play and frolic and dance

And I’ll watch you knowing I’m doing the best I can.

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THE GREAT BLUE HERON OF DUNBAR ROAD

That we might walk out into the woods together, and afterwards make toast in our sock feet, still damp from the fern’s wet grasp, the spiky needles stuck to our legs, that’s all I wanted, the dog in the mix, jam sometimes, but not always. But somehow, I’ve stopped praising you. How the valley when you first see it—the small roads back to your youth—is so painfully pretty at first, then, after a month of black coffee, it’s just another place your bullish brain exists, bothered by itself and how hurtful human life can be. Isn’t that how it is? You wake up some days full of crow and shine, and then someone has put engine coolant in the medicine on another continent and not even crying helps cure the idea of purposeful poison. What kind of woman am I? What kind of man? I’m thinking of the way my stepdad got sober, how he never told us, just stopped drinking and sat for a long time in the low folding chair on the Bermuda grass reading and sometimes soaking up the sun like he was the story’s only subject. When he drove me to school, we decided it would be a good day, if we saw the blue heron in the algae-covered pond next to the road, so that if we didn’t see it, I’d be upset. Then, he began to lie. To tell me he’d seen it when he hadn’t, or to suppose that it had just taken off when we rounded the corner in the gray car that somehow still ran, and I would lie, too, for him. I’d say I saw it. Heard the whoosh of wings over us. That’s the real truth. What we told each other to help us through the day: the great blue heron was there, even when the pond dried up, or froze over; it was there because it had to be. Just now, I felt like I wanted to be alone for a long time, in a folding chair on the lawn with all my private agonies, but then I saw you and the way you’re hunching over your work like a puzzle, and I think even if I fail at everything, I still want to point out the heron like I was taught, still want to slow the car down to see the thing that makes it all better, the invisible gift, what we see when we stare long enough into nothing.

ADA LIMÓN

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A Pretty Piece of Meat

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My Mother's Love Wavers

Inspired by Milk by Allie X

Mom used to tell Andy and me that when we were babies, she would hold us for so long that her arms became numb. She had to reluctantly  hand us off to Dad until her arms regained feeling and then she would do it all over again. I was an easier baby than Andy, but to both of our credit, we never really caused too much grief when we were younger. I was fussy when she left my crib for too long and I didn't like the prune juice they used to feed me, but that was it. Mom loved to brag about how lovely of a baby I was. 

She and Dad would get compliments from my teachers in elementary school gushing about how smart and sweet I was. Middle school was similar. I did my schoolwork, hung out with my friends, and stayed out of trouble. 

I had a good relationship with my parents. I remember one time I came home five minutes past curfew when I was 14, running into the house heaving from sprinting back from a friend's place after losing track of time. Mom was sitting at the kitchen counter in her robe and pajama pants typing away on her laptop. The second I saw her I began to spew apologies and promises of "never again" through short breaths. She looked at me with a stern face before breaking out into laughter. She stood up and wrapped her arms around me and kissed my head and told me not to worry so much. She had no reason not to trust me. When I walked up the stairs, she patted my head and told me to get some sleep. 

I started lying when I was 16. Realistically, I'd lied before, but never on a scale like that. In Mom's eyes, the two of us were friends. When the sun went down, we would take my car to the pier and smoke cigarettes and drink gross indie beer I stole from the fridge in our garage. We would kiss. It never went farther than that. When we returned to my house, we would hop in the shower and scrub our bodies raw to rid ourselves of the smell of cigarettes. I would brush my teeth and scrub my tongue until it bled so there would be no evidence of my sins. 

It was my senior year of high school when Mom found out. It was mid-April and I had just turned 18. Andy was back in town for the week and Mom decided that she would bring him and surprise me after school. 

I didn't see Mom and Andy standing near us. It was only a kiss goodbye. No cigarettes. No beer. No shared showers. The color on my face drained when I turned around to walk the other way and Mom was standing there. I thought I would vomit, and looking back, if someone had looked into that very moment it would be funny. Our expressions were probably the same and Andy just stood next to her knowing I made a grave mistake. That night was rough, she told Dad, and he had reacted the same way as Mom. Bloodless faces and two mouths pressed in a hard line. 

It was never really the same after that. 

We managed to be civil through graduation and the subsequent summer, and by the time August rolled around I had flown halfway across the country for college. We didn't talk much after that. Maybe the occasional "do you need more money in your account for groceries?" But besides that, it was radio silence. 

It's amazing how quickly something can become conditional. Maybe her love was always conditional and I was just none the wiser. I don't think I'll ever know. 

Dad passed away after my first semester of college. His kidneys had been giving him problems for years. I was booked the first flight home. I had never felt more alone. Andy's flight didn't get in until the next afternoon, and I had just lost my father. Mom picked me up from the airport in tears, put my suitcase in the car, and silently drove home. 

The second we walked into the house I broke down into sobs that wracked through my entire body. For almost an entire year I was a child sucking on their thumb for comfort so hard that the skin puckered and pruned. The kind of kid who soothes their wounds by licking them and lapping up the blood until their knee stops bleeding. At night I would attempt to rock myself asleep to feel a semblance of maternal warmth. Now I was back in the presence of my mother and all I needed was her love. 

She stared at me for a second when I started to cry before sitting down on the couch. I walked over to her like you'd walk towards a frightened animal and slowly sank down into her lap. Between sobs I promised her I wouldn't push her away or do anything wrong ever again. I would be her golden child.

She pulled me closer to her and rocked me until I was so exhausted from crying that I fell asleep. And as I drifted off, I vaguely remember grabbing the hem of her shirt so tightly that my fingers turned white and prayed that she wouldn't let go of me again.

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1,3,5,6,7. no more fun and games (magazine) // 2. child - lights // 4. ghost - ingrid michaelson

12.29.22

i feel like there’s still a fifteen year old girl inside of me that’s crying because she wasn’t allowed her childhood. she aches and claws and sobs to just be able to go back for a minute and not have older men drool over her youth like rabid dogs.

you didn’t need their validation.

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lavender woman (magazine) // i want to live with you - alex lahey // blazing star (magazine) // gold rush - taylor swift // lavender vision (magazine) // true lover - yerin baek // blazing star (magazine)

12.24.22

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holding on for dear life photo by Jungle George