i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.
unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s d r i p p i n g on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.
but after years of slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and washing them down with perspective, i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry. poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand why we must squeeze out pus to clean wounds - that there is wisdom in releasing things that make you ill, and the dangers of romanticising decay.
and so i pick out the letters i need with one hand to form sentences the best i can
and hit send
with hope that you understand.
2019-10-08 8.45pm
i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.
unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s dripping on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.
however, after slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and perspective and patience
i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry.
poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand the wisdom of cleaning infections by squeezing out the pus first.
and with that, i pick the letters with one hand
to form words the best i can
and i hit send
with hopes that you will understand.
unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s d r i p p i n g on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.
but after years of slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and washing them down with perspective, i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry. poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand why we must squeeze out pus to clean wounds - that there is wisdom in releasing things that make you ill, and the dangers of romanticising decay.
and so i pick out the letters i need with one hand to form sentences the best i can
and hit send
with hope that you understand.
2019-10-08 8.45pm
i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.
unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s dripping on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.
however, after slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and perspective and patience
i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry.
poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand the wisdom of cleaning infections by squeezing out the pus first.
and with that, i pick the letters with one hand
to form words the best i can
and i hit send
with hopes that you will understand.
2019-10-08 8.34pm
i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.
unbloating myself from feelings feels like a good selfish reflex sometimes, but pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s dripping on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end.
my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips and poking my brain to force out thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat,
but i am starting to understand the wisdom of cleaning infected parts by squeezing out the pus first;
perhaps it is finally time for me to learn to swallow my worries and wash it down with self-compassion
to see the beauty of clean wounds
rather than live in layers of bandages
and with that, i wash my hands and send
with hopes that you will understand.