I am Hannah.
I live in would haves and should haves.
I am a wimp and I'm scared of a lot of things, sometimes this stops me from having fun.
When the people I'm around are happy, I'm happy.
I am a huge Relativist.
I like to read and write, a lot.
“What we most want is only to be held… and told… that everything (everything is a funny thing, is baby milk and Papa’s eyes, is roaring logs on a cold morning, is hoot-owls and the boy who makes you cry after school, is Mama’s long hair, is being afraid and twisted faces on the bedroom wall)… everything is going to be all right.”
-Truman Capote’s Other Voices, Other Room
This is really hella funny. I like gourds.
After all you are quite
ordinary: 2 arms 2 legs
a head, a reasonable
body, toes & fingers, a few
eccentricities, a few honesties
but not too many, too many
postponements & regrets but
you’ll adjust to it, meeting
deadlines and other
people, pretending to love
the wrong woman some of the
time, listening to your brain
shrink, your diaries
expanding as you grow older,
growing older, of course you’ll
die but not yet, you’ll outlive
even my distortions of you
and there isn’t anything
I want to do about the fact
that you are unhappy & sick
you aren’t sick & unhappy
only alive & stuck with it.
-Margaret Atwood
My heart is so small
it’s almost invisble.
How can You place
such big sorrows in it?
“Look,” He answered,
“your eyes are even smaller,
yet they behold the world.”
Trace
I traced your face tonight.
With eyes closed
I memorized
you.
My fingertips remember
the lines the darkness
hid from me.
Tyler Knott
Love Letter
I don’t know when the boys
began to walk away with parts of myself
in their sticky hands; when loving
became a process of subtraction. Or why,
having given up what seems so much,
I’m willing to lose even more — erasing
all this body’s known, relearning it with you.
Melissa Stein
To Dorothy
You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
And a mulberry grow by the house.
So close, in the personal quiet
Of a windy night, it brushes the wall
And sweeps away the day till we sleep.
A child said it, and it seemed true:
“Things that are lost are all equal.”
But it isn’t true. If I lost you,
The air wouldn’t move, nor the tree grow.
Someone would pull the weed, my flower.
The quiet wouldn’t be yours. If I lost you,
I’d have to ask the grass to let me sleep.
Marvin Bell
(via haylieerin)
You see, I take the parts that I remember and I stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.
-Richard Siken “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”
“The brain appears to posses a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful. From the time he met Tereza, no woman had the right to leave the slightest impression on that part of his brain.”
I felt this way once. I will feel this way again.