psychoticwomnn

[psychoticwomnn]

i don't believe in god.

i don’t believe in god.

not in the way people say his name like a promise or a threat, not in the sermons or the symbols or the certainty. ive never been able to convince myself there’s someone watching, listening, pulling the strings. the stories never settled right in my chest - not human enough.

and yet, there are moments. quiet ones. unremarkable, almost - until something ancient shifts behind them. like when the light cuts through the trees just right, painting gold on everything it touches, or when I’m alone at night and the world is so still it feels like it’s holding its breath.

i see a crow tilt its head toward the sky like it knows a secret I never will, and ill stand by the ocean and feel that hum in my bones - something vast, something older than language. something that doesn’t need me to worship it to be real.

i don’t pray, but sometimes ill catch myself whispering into the wind. not to anyone, just because it feels like the world is listening. i don’t believe in god, but i believe in whatever makes spring come back. i believe in the way fire consumes and still leaves room for regrowth. i believe in how the stars never ask for attention, but get it anyway.

there is no god, just this strange, stubborn magic that lives in the dirt and the sky and the quiet. and that’s enough.

[psychoticwomnn]

There’s a certain melancholy to summer’s end. The winds pick up, the sky greys, the sun sets earlier, the temperature drops. I’ve never enjoyed summer - the sweltering heat, the sweat, the blinding sun is all too much for me - but I still find myself missing it. The crickets at night, time with family, seeing my friends whenever I want, feeling like I have no responsibilities. Maybe my feelings about the seasons changing stem from how soon my birthday follows. Birthdays always bring conflicting emotions. This summer went too fast - my last summer as a child. I turn eighteen in less than a week, and I feel lost. Every year, I wonder, 'Will I feel different when I wake up a year older?' And every year, the answer is no. Still, I can’t help but wonder if eighteen will feel different than seventeen, even though I know it won’t and I will be lost and floundering as I have been every year. One thing brings me comfort throughout my conflicting feelings: it all keeps happening. Summer will come again, and I’ll hate it just as I do every year. My birthday will come in twelve months, and I’ll feel sorrow at nineteen, just as I did at eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, and all the years before. Even though I often complain about summer and wish for it to end, its departure brings a different kind of sorrow. It is as if even though I hated it, it was a familiar kind of destestment, and now I’m losing it along with the last pieces of being a child. It's a strange mix of relief and fear, as if I am finally escaping something I wasn't fond of while being pushed into something I don't understand.

[psychoticwomnn]

the art of never moving on

she wasnt my first love. but i definitely loved her more than i have ever loved anyone in my life, in a romantic way at least. ive written songs about her. i see her in everything beautiful. in sunsets, in trees, in old abandoned houses, in daisies, in fog. for a very long time i couldnt stop crying over her. i couldnt stop missing her.

it's strange grieving over someone whos still alive.

[psychoticwomnn]

I stood on the bridge and looked down at the water, polluted and brown and shallow enough for me to see the ground, even through the murk. I noticed the sheen of oil in the water, white muck along the shore. I crossed to the end of the bridge and walked down to the land underneath it. I saw its sprawling wooden beams, its rust, and the dirt and the half-dead grass. I saw fallen trees, and a small blue wren flitting from branch to branch. It was silent down there. As one does in a place like this, I began to think about God and myself, and our places here. Is God in the bridge, supporting those decades-old wooden beams? Is He in the water, wishing for cleanliness and replenishment? Or perhaps He is the oil and the dirt polluting the river, maybe He is the fallen trees creating dams and keeping the water stagnant. I wondered about my role on earth as a human, and I thought about what defines me. Am I a woman? Am I a writer? Perhaps I am a Watcher, looking at and observing the world until I rejoin the dirt. I thought about the strings of my guitar, the hair trimmings left in my room, the words I have put to paper, the scars on my knees, and I wondered. I walked down to the shore and began throwing sticks into the water. I threw them up high, and watched as they splashed into the water. One went in completely vertically, and didn't have even the tiniest splash. It was then that I Understood. It was then that I Saw. I left shortly afterwards, but I have not been able to stop thinking about this bridge and its place in nature since.

[psychoticwomnn]

"It is quite true I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend. Somehow I have never loved a woman."

-basil, to dorian, pre-censorship

[psychoticwomnn]

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely.

-basil, about dorian

[psychoticwomnn]

"My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals."

-lord henry, the picture of dorian gray

[psychoticwomnn]

an excerpt from my poem "birthday wishes"

im running out of wishes,

out of reasons to ask for more.

hope, maybe.

maybe i should wish for hope.

but how can i beg for something ive never held?

how can i want what’s always slipping away?

ive been wishing for hope for years,

and ive only learned to stop expecting anything in return.

[psychoticwomnn]

i was still in love and trembling

[psychoticwomnn]

"i was dominated, soul, brain, and power by you."

- oscar wilde, the picture of dorian gray, pre-censorship

[psychoticwomnn]

follow you/verisimilitude

an excerpt from the song i wrote for an old friend

your misery eats at your insides, but ill kiss the parts it leaves behind. the waves may crash and pull you under, but ill drown in your same tide, ill let the current bind me to you, tethered to your sinking heart

misery will always follow you, love, but so will i. like the moon that moves the ocean's rise, ill draw closer with every pull of the universe, every sigh. ill follow you to the world's last breath, and tumble into your broken core, even as you crumble beneath what’s left.

[psychoticwomnn]

make my peace in bathroom stalls,

holy water dripping down these walls,

soak my clothes, my skin, my tongue,

drown out the taste of what i've done.

[psychoticwomnn]

an excerpt from *untitled*

"Your body comes to me in dreams, in visions, in hallucinations. I feel your flesh under my fingers, tender, warm, as I trace endless patterns onto your skin, hoping only to penetrate to your soul. Alas, I only dream it. T'is none but fiction, fantasy, to even consider calling you my own. You may not be mine, but I am yours. Always. I dream you, I crave you, I yearn for you in the rawest and truest of forms. I taste your sweet honey on my tongue, the salt of your tears from my own eyes. My dear, I present you my heart. You may do anything you wish with it."

-written by yours truly