i am so jealous of all the people who are comfortable with who they are physically and mentally
One day I just woke up and realized that I can’t touch yesterday. So why the heck was I letting it touch me?
I don’t pay attention to the
It has ended for me
and began again in the morning.
You don’t have only one soul-mate.
If you did,
you would have married your best friend
three years ago.
She knows you
better than her right hand,
and she’ll listen to you cry
from eight states away.
You don’t have only one soul-mate,
because people wake up different parts of you—
parts you never even knew existed.
The boy when you were 15
taught you what it felt like
to get caught kissing in a closet
at the party you never should have been at
in the first place,
without his lips ever touching yours.
When you were 18,
a boy let you know what it’s like
to have your heart lodged in your throat,
because he’s moving 2,000 miles away,
And he won’t tell you when he’ll be back.
You wait until you’re 22
to get attached again,
and this time you feel it in every inch.
It’s as if you got struck by lightning—
the Lichtenberg figure crawls
up your arms and across your back,
like his hands on your skin
while you laid in bed together,
and you thought the thump of your heart
was in time with his.
You don’t have only one soul-mate;
Instead, you have soul-mates,
because your heart is huge
and you have the room.
And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.
I think once you’ve thought about how a person sleeps, how they’d feel pressed up against your back, or your head on their chest, how compatible your bodies would be in the same space of a bed — once you’ve thought about that, you’re fucked.
But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?