pol-ar-ity

[pol-ar-ity]

[pol-ar-ity]

Paramore, "Forgiveness" / Attraversi… dante. TeatroLab. 2021. Laterza, Italy / Nikola Emma Ryšavá - Connections, 2017 /source unknown / Margaret Atwood, “Europe on $5 a Day” /Michelle Kingdom - Duties of Gossamer, 2015 / Daniel Dorsa , no title // Darya Makarova for Sicky Magazine / Now, Now, "Thread"/ Rania Hassan - Drop Stitch, 2009

[pol-ar-ity]

Something about leaving

Margarita Karapanou // Richad Siken // Andrés Cerpa // Alicia Cook // @thesadghostclub // Gabriela Mistral // Alejandra Pizarnik // Madeline Miller // Alejandra Pizarnik // Richard Siken

[pol-ar-ity]

familiarity

[pol-ar-ity]

seeking, yearning, reaching hands

[pol-ar-ity]

how do you love?

Richard Siken, Peter Wever, Ilya Kaminsky, Margaret Atwood, Ada Limón, Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Richard Siken, @maieste, Madeline Miller, Holly Warburton, Shauna Barbosa, Benjamin Alire Sáenz

buy me a coffee

[pol-ar-ity]

fear of abandonment –– to be abandoned, or to abandon? defensive, so as not to be hurt, or cautious to not be cruel? I was both the subjected and the provocateur. some people are afraid of feeling the pain alone. some share the feeling, some share the pain, so it could be felt. a hand can greet or grasp frantically at another's hand that will eventually retreat to its own body. to have enough power to not be a victim, not too much to be violent.

[pol-ar-ity]

So first of all….

[pol-ar-ity]

that’s show biz baby!!!!

[pol-ar-ity]

no bras allowed in the itty bitty titty committee

[pol-ar-ity]

I looked into his eyes as he took a bite of ice cream and all I saw was you.

I want to be vulnerable with you. I want to tell you about how you hurt me and I want you to feel sorry, apologize. I want to kiss you and I want you to kiss me back. You hurt me, you know? You really hurt me. I don’t know if I’ve ever recoiled like that from a lover I’d do anything for. And I didn’t go back when you asked me to. But right now I want to smell your shirt and run my fingers through your hair and play footsie and I want you to apologize. I want you to hold me and look in my eyes and look sad, look regretful, tell me you never want to hurt me and you hate that you did. And I want to bite my lip and nod and curl into you even more, dig my fingers into your back like I’m at sea and clinging to anything that will keep me from sinking under. I want you to hold me tight and tell me sweet things and I want to hear the rain patter outside while sirens whir past your window. I want you to want me, I want you to be sorry, I want you to love me back so badly, I want you to be proud of me, proud to know me.

He gives me a crooked smile from across the table. I cry in the bathroom.

[pol-ar-ity]

warmth of the sun, ron hicks | from a letter to milena, franz kafka

[pol-ar-ity]

What we’re reading

[pol-ar-ity]

via radiantsomatics

[pol-ar-ity]

I dangled my feet off the side of his bed

Swinging them just above the cold floor

Refusing to make contact with the hardwood

“I can’t find my socks,” I complained.

They were tangled somewhere in the sheets

Lost to the night before.

“Here, do you want a nice pair of wool socks?” He offered in a rare show of thoughtfulness.

I nodded and he dug through the pile of fresh laundry I knew he’d probably never put away

And pulled out a pair of striped socks, well-loved.

“You have to give these back,” he said, kissing me on the head.

I went home, his socks slouching around my ankles, delighted because:

A. I had something special to him, something that he wanted back and was trusting me to care for and return. I would never just lend my favorite socks or gloves to just anyone. Having something special of his must make me special to him.

B. He wanted to see me again. This was his way of telling me that. If anything, we’d at least have to see each other again so I could return his favorite socks.

A few weeks later, we spoke on the phone about past lovers and the souvenirs we’d kept. I told him about the quilt on my bed that a much older man had offered me on my way out the door, and the tshirt in my pajama drawer that belonged to my first love, unworn and unwashed for years.

“What are you going to keep of mine?” He teased.

“Well, I already have your socks,” I replied.

“What socks,” he asked?

My god, I feel everything too deeply.

[pol-ar-ity]

I have fallen in love with you.

Wildly. Madly. Incoherently. Desperately. Irrevocably. Unmistakably. Indescribably. Crazily. Irresistibly. Softly. Quickly. Wholeheartedly. Down-to-the-core, real—

But, most of all—

unfortunately.

“the love poems are still about you.”

[pol-ar-ity]