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all at once, it occurred to me that i am just as attention craving as everyone else. that i am not unique in anyways and that everyone is bland this way- there is nothing that makes me qualified or stimulating or ever worthwhii ssntle.

a knife as if a dart plunged do extra damag

mm

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when all is said and done, at least i can say i tired with ever fibre within me.

i tried for more than most, and thats what i am fond of.

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Charles Baudelaire, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Charles Baudelaire

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each time i feel deeply, i end up having felt to much; wasting simplicity with complexity and irrationality when it is not necessary. taking everything one step past regular, and typical.

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Thank you to everyone who got me to 500 likes!

i feel like a celebrity all of the sudden i love you all with such sincere feeling

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I do not like you at all.

I do not like the way you look or breath or smell.

I do not like how you have so many moles like stars, and I don’t like the way my eyes linger on them for a second too long.

I don’t like the scar on your neck, how it is paler in colour. I hate myself for wishing to caress it.

I don’t like your hands, how they look while you are wearing gloves, and I hate myself for wishing to hold your hand

I don’t like your fingers how they are so short; I hate myself for wishing to compare them with mine.

I don’t like your rings; I hate how I wish to be wrapped around you like the ring on your finger.

I don’t like your eyes; they shine too much in the sunlight and twinkle too much at the moon; I hate myself for wishing they stayed at me only.

I don’t like how your eyelashes look; they are too black and too long; I hate my desire to touch them.

I don’t like your lips, the colour or the shape of them; I hate myself for wondering how they would feel against mine.

I don’t like your hair, how they look so soft or how you look while tying them; I hate myself for wondering how it would feel to run my fingers through them

I don’t like your smile; you smile easily at everything and everyone; I hate myself for wishing how much I want to be the only one you smile at.

I hate myself for loving you and I hate myself for not loving you.

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the worst people and the horrible acts they come along with, however soul crushing they may be, are always the catalyst behind the most powerful occurrences in our lives; the parts where our resilience is so loud, we can hear over the screams, for once.

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— Sylvia Plath, quoting an acquaintance in ‘The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath’

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Sylvia Plath, aged 25, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (dated September 11, 1958)

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you haunted me mostly in ways that kept me living somewhere between then, and now.

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Sylvia Plath, aged 26, NOTEBOOK, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (dated March 20, 1959)

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"sylvia...she makes my soul ache. i see myself sprawled across pages in her work. so concerning to see the way she left, her departure," he made a remark in which he affirmed her opinions, and emphasized the eloquent sadness that exists within her world. "makes me feel as though that is my inevitable end. i have felt that way ever since i knew what feelings were; that there will be an eventual ending that i bring to part. and so much of my suffering is reflected in her lifelong struggle. it is like a wound that'll never close, unless i close it," i further elaborated upon my own suffering and the ways in which it strikes me that she communicates it effectively, as if my own life were being written about. "and yet, we pick at it," he said, examining the cycle of sabotage that people who are damned to write the way Plath was. my response was so simple, yet he seemed to imply that the phrases i tied together were strung with the same lace as Plath herself, had used all those years ago; "because how can i not? a wound as deep as that, i cannot help but to try to define the edges and bounds."

-g.b.

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“I have to get inspired by something that touches my soul, or rocks my soul.”

— Steven Tyler

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Sylvia Plath, aged 18, journal entry #31, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (c. November 1950)

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i find that in the darkest hours of the night, my soul feels the brightest; it swells while the moon sings sweetly, honey-written lullabies she hums to me. so many things i wish i could tell her, whispering to my window and staring up at a body that i will never reach; miss moon seduces me every night with the shadows and the alluring promises she brings with the tides. oh, sweet mother moon; how i crave the way you make me feel, how i desire the fire you ignite in the deepest parts of me. she has me wondering if this is the type of ache that the greats wrote lines of beautifully tortured poetry about; did you make sylvia feel so deeply, miss moon? did you peer into her soul, searching and wandering as if it was made for you? perhaps, that is something you only do for me; could it be? do you see me like a mirror, truly and plainly for the imperfections i merit?

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17 May, 1932 The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf (1924-1941)