I already saw that on Tumblr.
Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”
If someone asked me to describe myself in one word
I would answer with shaky.
There are seven days in a week
And eight of them consist of me standing in the eye of a hurricane
With my hand stretched out remembering how the storm
Used to whip through my hair.
I fell in love with love before I could even walk
But every time someone says they love me
I lay awake at 4 AM, searching for hidden lies
And what they could take away from me
My heart is woven from broken glass
With shards sticking out in odd places
But it still beats, and it falls for boys with brown eyes
Way more than it should.
I used to like to dance,
My feet tend to take me in twists and turns that make me stumble
Both metaphorically and literally.
I have thought about wearing a sign
Telling people to proceed with caution
Before I get too close and sink my nails into their skin,
Trying to lace their bones with mine
Because I have a terrible habit of always feeling alone.
My blood is really the ink of so many pens
That I chewed up and spit out,
My inspiration dwindling fast.
I’ve never believed in the face I see in the mirror,
Because it’s all a lie.
I can still remember counting my ribs
Like they were ladder rungs I could climb.
Every time I close my eyes,
I feel ghosts tearing me apart
And my dreams are filled with people and flashes of lightening.
I’ve never told anyone but every time I wake up,
I have to start all over
And remind myself that I do love life
And not to take the pills I still have hidden under my mattress.
I’m scared one day I’ll have a daughter
And she’ll ask why my hands tremble so much,
And why there are scars traveling up my left arm.
I don’t want to have to tell her
About the monster I tried to cut out of my elbow,
And how much I cried before the blood made me pass out.
I don’t want to have to say that sometimes the simplest things
Made me curl into a ball in the shower and sob until it ran cold.
I can’t bare to see how she looks at me
When I explain that I get scared so easily
Because all my courage was stolen with a calloused fist
Hitting my face over
o v e r.
I don’t want to have a son,
Because I’m horrified at the thought
That he might inherit my temper
And we’ll be able to compare the bruises
That line our knuckles when the voices get too loud
And we punch a hole through a wall
Because punching our heart out isn’t possible, and it’s way too messy.
I’ve always said if there’s one thing I do right with my life,
It’ll be to give my children someone who wouldn’t light a fire
To every hope they had,
Leaving their confidence weeping on the floor.
They won’t cringe at the word “daddy”
And my daughter won’t ever think for a second that she isn’t beautiful.
She won’t think that compliments
Are just another way to fool her
Until she is knocked off her feet again,
Shattered like a mosaic before it’s pieced together.
I think too much,
I love too much,
I am too dependent,
And I’ve been told over and over
That I can’t make houses out of people
I know all too well that they don’t make good ones.
But I’ve been standing in this hurricane,
And all I’ve ever wanted was to be somebody’s everything.
The hardest lesson I’ve ever learned was that it will never happen
Not when I’m not even anything to myself.
- lupita won an oscar
- ellen is hosting a giant pizza party
- kristen belle brought a burrito to the oscars
- brad pitt is handing out paper plates
- arby’s bought pharrell’s hat on ebay
- everything is beautiful