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[carlyleann44]

[carlyleann44]

If I could be honest for one second—no one tells you that miscarriages are traumatic. No one tells you because most of the women that have them keep it to themselves, like some sort of secret. Which is fine if it wasn’t expected. So you don’t realize actually how painful it is, you assume like some sort of complete idiot that it’s something you can get over easily? Because that’s what’s been presented to you. And then you realize it’s a traumatic event that literally changes your entire perception on anything, and seeing pregnant women or children or talking about pregnancy reminds you and it just becomes hard to breathe?

Everyone also assumes it’s something you should just “get over”. It’s “what happens”, you can’t mourn because it’s “weird”. I remember questioning “should I feel this way? Am I allowed to be sad?” Because I didn’t carry my baby full term and then loose it. I remember that and just...no one tells you.

Anyway I’ll never be over it and it’s traumatic and I want everyone to know.

[carlyleann44]

Normal People

[carlyleann44]

I did the being edgy and self-deprecating thing, it gets old. I wanna be soft and lovely and easily impressed. I wanna appreciate all the little things that make me happy the same way I’ve dwelled on every single thing that upsets me.

[carlyleann44]

Evelyn Cunningham in The Pittsburgh Courier, Pennsylvania, December 29, 1956

[carlyleann44]

the poems aren’t about him anymore

but they might as well be

because the only reason i let you close enough to touch me

is because the words you speak may as well be coming out of his mouth

i am not the one to blame for this mess

when he was the one who left me so blinded that i could only fall back into the arms of boys that would only ever drop me in the end

falling into boys who only treat me as a body

boys who treat me like he did

i’ll search for anyone that reminds me of the way he left

and i’ll tear myself apart for it afterwards

but its all i know

he is all i know

[carlyleann44]

“I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to be someone else entirely, I didn’t want to owe anyone anything, or be owed anything either.”

— Margaret Atwood, from “The Year of the Flood,” published c. 2009 (edited)

[carlyleann44]

it isn’t that i ache, but the swell in my chest when i tilt up to look at the top of ferris wheels isn’t fear anymore. it isn’t that i ache but instead that while you and i were drunk on your living room rug and you said you’ll find love i didn’t tell you otherwise because i liked the way the words looked in the air between us. i feel no lacking, but the night is a blue that is knifeish, all silver keen like the imagined collar of my future. it isn’t that i want a specific thing, but i am wanting, the soft call of a horizon that peeks out sunsets too far to touch no matter how fast i run. 

where am i going. why am i not home here, where it is easy, and where i could build a life unseasonably sad but bearable. i could stop feeling stuck and instead teach myself this is what it means to be planted. i could say that the strange pull in me is only the desire of entropy, to unseam what should be held together.

it isn’t that i yearn, but i picture the blues of oceans and ask - is this the color that belongs to her? when i find her, will i be a better person? i fill my mouth with tongues and chocolate and good times but i cannot pin her down. maybe one day i will step through the mirror and she will be there, easily, hungry for her same ache and want of me.

home, i mean. home. 

[carlyleann44]

a lot of love and a lot of worry inside me

[carlyleann44]

c’mon dude go pee. you’re not yourself when your bladders full 

[carlyleann44]

angelea lowes, found in thank you, next

[carlyleann44]

“Lust is so inadequate. And loving exhausts me.”

— Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait in Letters

[carlyleann44]

“I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.”

— Anne Sexton

[carlyleann44]

Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

[carlyleann44]

found an old book of poetry from the 60′s and thought if anyone would appreciate it it’d be you punks

[carlyleann44]

[carlyleann44]

mom can you come get me things are getting bad again and i feel every insult like a sharp tooth and i feel my dreams rotting under my fingernails and i feel too much all the time or else i feel nothing at all and it doesn’t seem to matter if i drink and dance and party or if i stay at home curled up to study

mom are you sure when i was born i was a person and not just a vortex, always hungry always swallowing no matter how much goes in me i always end up empty