“I hate you. I hate how you make me feel.
I hate how when you speak to me I love you.
I hate how when you don’t speak to me
I still love you.
I hate that I love you.
And I hate how cliché my emotions feel,
how I still cling to the idea that love is pain, and pain is love, and love has meaning,
and if the pain has meaning then it’s supposed to be worth it.
I listen to songs that make me cry on purpose. I read poetry that makes me sob. Shouldn’t I love a boy that makes my heart break?
I haven’t eaten lunch in a while now.
At first I told myself I was saving money. When I kept spending the same amount on that overpriced venti sweetened iced Americano with cream,
I realized I just like how it feels to be hungry.
How it gnaws inside of me. How I can pinpoint the emptiness right to my stomach instead of feeling it everywhere.
How I get to control at least one thing I feel.
How starving myself of food makes me feel less starved of affection.”
“We all have our little solipsistic delusions, ghastly intuitions of utter singularity: that we are the only one in the house who ever fills the ice-cube tray, who unloads the clean dishwasher, who occasionally pees in the shower, whose eyelid twitches on first dates; that only we take casualness terribly seriously; that only we fashion supplication into courtesy; that only we hear the whiny pathos in a dog’s yawn, the timeless sigh in the opening of the hermetically-sealed jar, the splattered laugh in the frying egg, the minor-D lament in the vacuum’s scream; that only we feel the panic at sunset the rookie kindergartner feels at his mother’s retreat. That only we love the only-we. That only we need the only-we. Solipsism binds us together, J.D. knows. That we feel lonely in a crowd; stop not to dwell on what’s brought the crowd into being. That we are, always, faces in a crowd.”
“There’s an opposite to déjà vu. They call it jamais vu. It’s when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.”
“I think a lot about why scrolling through my newsfeed, through my dashboard, through anything that keeps my mind on people other than myself makes me feel less like I’m going to fall out of my own body. I lost my phone the other day and instead of hearing stillness, I could only hear how loud the wind was blowing around my face, how dry my eyes felt when they weren’t staring at my hands. I don’t know what to do with these contradictions.
This morning I woke up and couldn’t stand the reflection I saw in the mirror. I didn’t see a single facial feature staring back at me. All I could see was the way my lover looked at me when I said I can’t make you care if you don’t. How stricken I felt when it came out less like a declaration and more like a plea.
I saw the disappointment in my father’s face when he told me that I am too selfish. My mother’s hands twisting in her lap when I told her I can’t live like this. The smirk of that stranger who tried to touch me like it was his right. The exact moment that the person I loved realized that I would always see more silence than I did light.
I try to remember that I cannot define myself by my own regrets. That I am made up of more than the approval of others. That love can’t really exist in degrees, only in sum.
That my worth is not a judgment.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming or I’d have cleaned up a little more. My life, I mean, not just the apartment.”
“I don’t know why people are so keen to put the details of their private life in public. They forget that invisibility is a superpower.”
“Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.”
– George R.R. Martin
“There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche