We assume others show love the same way we do — and if they don’t, we worry it’s not there.Unknown (via horriblebrandi)
Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world.John Burroughs (via observando)
There is a swing to her hips when she walks and an entire orbit when she dances. Her skin unzips to reveal a spine that is unraveling and spinning and weaving itself simultaneously. She is always falling apart and picking up the pieces. A finger falls off but she catches it with her foot, an ear slips off and gets caught in her collarbone. She knows her anatomy so well she can reattach without looking: spinning a fingertip righty-tighty until it won’t move anymore, or holding her ear in place until the magnets activate. The childhood plagued with surgeries and recoveries was worth it.
Sometimes a piece of her skin comes off in her hands – usually when she is thinking about impossible things like loving boys who don’t break like she does or world peace before she dies or reviving the dinosaurs. She lets these windows of herself bleed, lets the people stare at her muscles clenching and relaxing, her blood churning, her bones shifting. At moonlight she returns home and stitches the skin back together. Every night she prays it will stay, that she will wake up the next morning in one piece. But she always rises to a bed littered with the mess of her and bloodied sheets. Some days she wakes up looking at the blinds because her eyes are perched on the windowsill facing away. Other days she’s late after finally discovering that the insistent muffled sound is her tongue screaming under her pillow.
Being born with a condition like this one is never easy. She sits at lunch with a group of girls she wouldn’t quite dare to call friends: one whose hair is constantly changing color like a mood ring, another whose heart is constantly aflutter with various birds calling out to each other, and a few others. But there is something wrong with everyone, and so they conglomerate to share in a sort of patient loneliness, the kind cultivated instead of imposed.
One particular morning, she opens her eyes and they are still in her head. But something feels different. She thinks it might be a common cold, but she looks to see her heart beside her tethered by a few fragile veins still pumping in its own pool of blood. It was bound to happen eventually. She presumes the heart wiggled its way out between her ribs after the skin of her breasts flapped open onto her belly. She thinks how beautiful her little red bloodpump looks and then laughs at her own foolishness while screwing her fingertips back on and stuffing the heart between ribs and lacing her skin into itself and covering it with concealer – no one ever wants to the see the scars of her.
She makes herself perfect every morning. She stands before a suite of glass: vanity mirrors and full length mirrors, microscopes and compacts, all angled toward her. She shivers and flinches in the glare of a reflection, but this examination is necessary. She opens bottles of antiseptic to treat each missing part and begins the tedious work of prettying herself. The bolts and braces and magnets help as the doctor said they would, making the internal re-attachments almost seamless. When she is finished linking the muscles and veins, she pins her skin into place, threads a needle with synthetic flesh, and sews it shut. The heavy-duty concealer smoothes the stitches back into epidermis. When she is done healing, she does the simple tasks of make-up: foundation, blush, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick.
It only lasts until she makes it to the front door. She sighs and begins the trick all over.
When people stop writing, it’s one of two things – they are either really fucking happy or broken beyond repair.Ming D. Liu (via writingquotes)
Such a lovely and inspiring poem. Danez Smith is wonderful.