What color was your yesterday?
What if we are just parallel lines?
stuck on the same plane
with an inability to intersect.
This semester
I got an A in remembering to call my mother.
I would have also had an A in remembering to stop remembering you.
But I’m fucking up the last exam.
I try not to write love poems:
I know there are worse things to be than heartbroken
and better things to be than mid-kiss.
I try not to think romantically:
I know it is only with first-world privilege
that I can lust
and love
(and crush
and crave).
I know that if I was less lucky,
I wouldn’t even have the time
to let my mind wander
or wonder about you.
I try not to pine.
I never want to sound ungrateful
for being given lesson after lesson
in intimacy
when others do not get education of any kind,
when some do not even receive paternal love,
maternal love,
or familial love of any sort.
repeat after me: it is a privilege.
it is such a privilege
(& maybe that is why, despite my efforts,
I still write (& think)(and wonder) about it.)
The revitalization:
For a year I sang “come back”
only to realize I was not singing it to you but to my true self instead.
(& eventually I listened).
i’m no good with numbers
but I know you have 2 perfect eyes
and 1 of the most intriguing smiles
I have ever seen
& if you added us together
we would make quite the equation.
my mother thinks the world of me.
one time, mid-argument
she said “I don’t have the things you have-
I don’t have your smarts.”
I wanted to scream “IQ is hereditary!”
(and also heavily influenced by the environment you were raised in)
but i didn’t.
so here are the words that belonged in that moment.
here is the defense of my mother’s lovely brain
because
intelligence comes in many forms,
and not all of them (or even the most important ones)
can be articulated in the form of a letter grade:
I know you don’t think of yourself as smart
the way I didn’t think of myself as pretty
but thank you for telling me almost everyday of my adolescence.
(and before
and after
and still)
I know you don’t call yourself intelligent
the way I didn’t call myself creative
but thank you for urging me to,
& for promising me I’d find my niche.
I know you don’t label yourself sharp
the way I didn’t label myself social
but thank you for perpetually encouraging me
to speak up.
this is a reminder that
1.you are not stupid just because you didn’t get an A in typing class.
skipping it to be with your best friend is a pretty decent excuse.
(and I still think it’s badass you beat up the girl who made fun of her for being pregnant).
2.you are not dumb for having an unexpected pregnancy yourself in college.
you are strong for raising a child alone.
(and again you were tough for answering the father’s remark of,
“that’s your problem”
with a “you’re right” & a shove out the door).
it takes a whole lot of important stuff
to be an insanely good mother.
intelligence, yes
(but also compassion
and kindness
and truth).
so here’s to you,
the woman who taught me to read everything,
question most things,
and most importantly, to write it all down.
you are brilliant.
you’re just going to have to trust me on this one.
I haven’t always been the happiest & I don’t think that’s what it’s about.
your favorite painting
was once weird shapes on canvas
was once a blank slate
was once nothing at all.
It was not “naturally gorgeous”.
it was not “born that way”.
it wasn’t “lucky”.
it was not anything
that we call our peers
who seem better off than us.
It was merely
crafted to be the way you see it-
to be a thing of beauty.
they always say,
“Rome wasn’t built in a day”
but they forget to say
“Neither were you”.
(that may seem obvious but if it were
we wouldn’t be so hard on ourselves,
would we?)
By Bill Dixon
1. For the Love of Everything Holy, Stop Telling Me How to Make Bombs
Stop telling me how easy it is to make a bomb. I spent the afternoon of the Boston Marathon bombing in L.A. traffic, screaming at my radio as they told me just how easily I could make my very own…
Wow this forever.
HEY, I HAVE A LIFE IDEA
I want to start a monthly no-bullshit-motivational newsletter/mailing (because most people need some encouragement but don’t want to have to ask for it) <—-I, for example, am exactly like this
I’d also like to have some sort of interactive motivational site where you can customize your virtual pep talk.
ANNNNNNNND then eventually
I want to have/be apart of a non-profit group o’ motivational speakers that give real-world no-nonsense talks at schools, coffee shops, youth centers etc.
eek.
Why the moon is bitter:
the sun cannot go anywhere
without being admired.
she doesn’t think much of herself
(but everyone else thinks highly of her).
when she is there, most everyone is happy.
when she is away, the world cries,
“When are you coming back?”
The sun thinks of the moon
17 times a day.
(they used to be lovers but you know how things go.)
Everyone thinks she is thinking of them.
She isn’t.
the moon knows her own beauty.
knows of the sun’s, too.
she pictures her counter &
smirks,
but wishes to be smiling alone.
she hides in the sky-
(Crescent moons mark a half hidden grin.)
For she knows she has had the sun
in ways the world has not.
the warmth they receive from her
feels like a mockery to the moon.
like everyone is grabbing slices of her favorite thing.
making it less
and less hers
everytime.
Remember, the universe only became the universe when it shattered into dust
And that shattering is the one thing you can always trust enough to tell you
the truth is so quiet
you may never have heard it without a stethoscope pressed to your chest
Andrea Gibson (via jesusfuckmechrist)
(Source: i-do-it-forthelove)
“We live in our mouths,
& they are so far apart.”
Anonymous asked: Do you think the sun ever thinks about the moon?
This is beautiful. I will write about it!
