"Why aren’t you sleeping?"
he asks. “Waiting is eyes wide
open,” she says. “What
are you waiting for?” he asks.
“To see if you let me dream.”

Brick by Brick

If ever there were a generation made of fragmentation, it is my generation.

An age of selves constructed not as wholes, but as pieces.  The mosaic generation, they call us, if they are trying to sound eloquent.

But we are not poetry.  We are constructed only in the way we fall together.  The way the shattered fragments look when swept up into a pile.  

We are made through the conflict of our selves, the way we fight against that greatest of enemies: I. me.  I against me.

And we cannot be unmade.

I think this is what we long to do.  To be unmade.  This is a certain kind of “to be” that aches in our throats, that grows arthritis in our tendons.  To peel away the layers crusted over our skin like masks until we find what’s underneath.

More fragments.  More pieces.

We are seamstresses, all.  Sewing and weaving together lifeless things in order to make a vivacious self.

And when we face those gaps in our own fragmentation and find they can’t be filled, we are devastated.  For some things, we cannot find a voice, a language, a thought, a feeling.  There is no way to justify some juxtapositions, and so we drip through the cracks, utterly lost in the rubble of our own making.

I cannot be two people at once, yet I am asked to be so many more.

Do you hear me, mosaics?  Do you hear me, rubble?

Or have we heard too much to go on hearing more still?

"Occasionally we let someone in, we open the folds of our insecurity and give access to the darkest parts of us. We hand over the key, and it’s terrifying. And sometimes they bump into a raw nerve, they say a callous insensitive remark, they ridicule a strange notion we have, they poke at our dreams just a bit. It hurts pretty bad and we push them out and fold up fast. We remind ourselves, “This is why I don’t let anyone in.” And we run.

It’s right here that most people apologize like crazy. They feel terrible. They were trying to figure out how to navigate the labyrinth of your wonderful story. It’s like holding a tiny flash light in a cave of a new world. They didn’t mean to provoke those old wounds. They didn’t mean to poke fun at your dreams. They considered it an honor that they held the key, even for a few frenzied moments.

Intimacy takes work, trust, wounds, hurts, sculpting in the dark: and that takes time. It takes more than a single chance. Of course we can close the doors, at any second, when we know it just won’t work. But there are many opportunities if we had trusted a little longer, reset the tempo, and spoke up louder: it would’ve been okay. Bridges would be built. New stories are made. You find your hand closing around theirs. They begin to traverse the folds of your heart with ease, and they learn to say those things which give life, which give freedom, which grow dreams. Intimacy is formed out of stumbling, but further down the path: there is so much light, so much laughter, so many steps to the horizon together."

J.S.  (via tanghuijuan)

(Source: jspark3000, via effortlessascension)

Draw circles outward
on your arms, in margins—
spiral out of control,
spiral into my arms.
Think of how carefully
we hold the pen
to draw a spiral
in the spaces
of our lives.

exhale. but breathe no
apologies. you are so
much more than worth it.

I’ll tell you what I’ve learned
of cause and effect:
we don’t get answers
just for asking
the questions.

I cannot write to
fill the space in my lungs, to
hush my racing heart.

"Am I enough?" She
asks. “To what measure?” He says.
“To you. For this. Us.”
“You can’t be contained,” he says,
“in enough enoughs, my dear.”

Look at me; tell my
eyes all the words you’ll never
breathe upon my lips.

You don’t make me brave—
you fill me with words for fear:
I. And love. And you.

He answers me with
hugs around the knees, faces
my fears with foreheads
touching as sticky fingers
grab mine—he grows my heart til
I know I can’t bear the break.

What color are your
walls? Do you even build them?
Mine drip with fresh paint,
shining new layers of fear,
black like the night you can’t see.

There will always be
two—women staring out this
mirror, two women
reflected in your eyes, and
only one brown gaze: his, hers.

She has a great smile.
I only bare teeth to snarl.
She bit the hand—yours—
while I let you feed me dreams,
while I hope I don’t snap, too.

I peel pain from my
fingertips, breathe heartache from
each string that you strum.