leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. train your heart like a dog. change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. you lucky, lucky girl. you have an apartment just your size. a bathtub full of tea. a heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. you had to have him. and you did. and now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. don’t lose too much weight. stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. and you are not stupid. you loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. heart like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas. heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
I’ve found myself being inexplicably drawn to illustrations lately. I used to draw and paint extensively, but in recent years I’ve left my easel to be covered in dust and all my sketchbooks hidden in boxes. I was never particularly good, but it was a way to soothe myself when I’d get worked up from school and my family. Trading paintbrushes for pens, writing provided me a bit of solace until I gave that up too. I admire passionate people who stick to their craft-there’s nothing that stirs more jealousy in me than someone who is sure of what they want and what they’re doing.
Surprised I haven’t started reading this til now..
“Perhaps my speech was somewhat extravagant, though often it happened when I was holding myself in with main force. The turn of a phrase, the choice of an unfortunate adjective, the facility with which the words came to my lips, the allusions to subjects which were taboo - everything conspired to set me off as an outlaw, as an enemy to society. No matter how well things began sooner or later they smelled me out. If I were modest and humble, for example, then I was too modest, too humble. If I were gay and spontaneous, bold and reckless, then I was too free, too gay. I could never get myself quite au pointwith the individual I happened to be talking to. If it were not a question of life and death - everything was life and death to me then - if it was merely a question of passing a pleasant evening at the home of some acquaintance, it was the same thing. There were vibrations emanating from me, overtones and undertones, which charged the atmosphere unpleasantly.”
Perhaps it’s easier to pretend those moments didn’t exist. Perhaps it’s ignorant to do so. I lose everything I want to keep because I can’t speak up. I don’t think he reads this anymore so at least I can pour my secrets into you, dearest Internet. 4 mini moleskine journals, filled up and bound with twine under my bed, now what to do with the pillow and pinata? Sometimes it’s easier to get rid of the things as the process begins, that way there’s less to look at during the end.
“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
“Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;”
Desires compos’d, affections ever ev’n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav’nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.”—Alexander Pope “Eloisa to Abelard”