It’s all just stories we tell ourselves, in the end. Isn’t it?
I’m not <good> enough.
My <shame> makes me unlovable.
I will never...
Sometimes things feel perfect
because when you lie in bed with
him wearing nothing but each other
it is like your legs fit perfectly
I want to be a cavity nestled in your back molar. So when you need to touch me you’d have to open your mouth wide and take an intimate look inside...
I saw myself
in your eyes—
brown and dark and
made of the stuff
I always swore
my own eyes
have been closed
She has one kid, a girl about fourteen, but no husband because he left her, took the good car, took her diamond ring back, and...
I can’t write the way I used to so
I’ve stopped. Entirely. And in the absence
of words gathering my thoughts - eyes captured
by nothing my own self
has wandered. Bored and left me. A feeling worse
than a hand reaching out in the night, returning
only with the memory of once feeling
I’ve become bored
Maybe before then. Like
pulling petals from a dead flower making use
of something once the beauty
I used to wear wedding dresses
all kinds, like Vera Wang, down a runway where all I ever saw were
the flashing lights and never faces because my eyes move
quickly when I’m nervous. I was in high school then,
but still I’d take time to notice my reflection
because I thought maybe this would be the only time…
Back then, everyone tells you how much you have to learn but
I’ve learned some things
you already know - like relying on the sun
to rise before anyone taught you about the solar cycle.
Yes, I noticed my reflection in that dress, but I saw
it in context. I didn’t move
the image to a day
years from then.
I didn’t think about bouquets or wonder
if my dad would cry while we walked, my arm
in his, no. And I didn’t think of my friends and guess
which ones I’d still call a friend and would
they wear yellow or
blue, no. No. But most of all,
I never imagined a face
at the end of that aisle…
You know the sun will rise before you learn how.
I knew I’d be alone even before I learned why.
If I could shed a memory
it would be of you
when you met me-
your eyes on me like your hands as if I were the first
But now I’m familiar and you’re not
Barney isn’t the same. He’s been many men before, but this one will be the last. There’s no possible transformation to follow. And his life is so stripped and raw now that the past can only feel like a dream. It’s a dream that he carries in his veins, day after day after day.
Nobody can imagine what he feels. There’s not a person who would attempt to. It’s a shame, they’ll say. A real tragedy. And it is. But none would dare imagine what that man’s mind has become.
Of late it seems some wave of malaise has washed over these parts of tumblr. The dash is dead more often than not, apart from throw-away posts from people complaining the dash is dead but doing naught about it, really. We are creators, and yet we come here to be entertained by others. Perhaps we have this oft-romanticized “writer’s block”, or perhaps we’re just burned out on life, the universe, and everything. Perhaps we just need a kick in the mother fuckin’ pants.
Must I be the one to provide the metaphorical kick to the mother fuckin’ pants once a quarter? Okay, well then, fine. Pleased to meet you. I am the metaphorical pants-kicker round these parts, though I’m wearing none, that’s part of the metaphor, hi. Your name is?
You must be new here (unless you’re old, in which case, all apologies). But seriously, buck the fuck up. This is tumblr, love. We live by the week and we love by the minute. We hit it and quit it. Apologies to those who think elsewise but tumblr’s the literary equivalent to “hit it and quit it”.
And so I did.
But I’m still here. For you. I’m here for you. Writers stand tall; stand proud. Writers keep writing for readers who read. We are the few, the proud, the writers who post long text posts on tumblr and don’t give any fucks, but will still reply to a post with a GIF if a GIF’s given. We acquire this “tumblr-speak” but also substitute our own. We love John Green and Dr. Who and cats doing cat things and GIF’s doing GIF things and life doing life things.
Y’all seem so down. You’re dropping one by one. Disillusioned, dissatisfied, dis … dis. I’m not asking you to come back — I’m not even asking you to stay. You do what you want. I’m only asking you to consider, just once, that you have an audience, here.
But mostly, I’m asking that audience to show itself. If you’re a reader, stand strong and heart this post. Even if it wouldn’t flow with the aesthetic of your blog. For one moment, let’s admit that sometimes we like reading words. Let’s feel strong in that and let it flow. If you’re a reader, let people know. Don’t be ashamed.
If you’re a writer, reblog this post. Let other writers, and other readers, know: You support them, you understand them, you know. We’re all in this together. There are those of us creating original work, here on tumblr (!) — not just curating the work of others — and we deserve to be heard, and seen, and read.
We’re a small bit of tumblr, but our content is original and our voice is true. Let’s be heard.
I decided to take the train - I know it’s more expensive and you hate my reckless spending but it will lead me to you faster.
I almost told an old lady to hurry up as she ever-so slowly got off in Chicago. And I know, by the way, that me getting irritated with a helpless old lady Isn’t something that would make you happy.
But I just need you to know that I get it.
It wasn’t until you got on that bus that drove 700 miles in the wrong direction from me that I finally understood the blues.
She grabbed her hair by the nape of her neck, collecting the messy brown locks with her fingers until she held it all. She didn’t look in the mirror. Carelessly she spun her hair while pulling it up and securing it under the baseball cap she’d never considered wearing until two days ago. It had been two days. She didn’t have tears to go with her feelings. Just memories stained over everything. Everything.