Yeah I Know U Miss Me It’s Pretty Hard To Forget An Angel

it’s getting colder and I miss watching the condensation of your breath form and disappear in the air. the iciness of your blue eyes, the chill in your stare. winter boy, you said you never loved me. winter boy, I have so many questions: was it all real? why can’t you look me in the eye any more? how did you forget me that easily? 

winter boy, how did our love get so cold?

“Want”, Clementine von Radics // Duck Butter, dir. Miguel Arteta // “GPS”, Shauna Barbosa // “Ten Love Letters”, Clementine von Radics

just to be clear, you can do this too

trigger warning: self harm

it’s been a year since I last hurt myself, an addiction that took all my willpower to overcome. I know I can fashion words into something beautiful but there was nothing pretty about all that self-hatred, all that anger, loss and pain. all that pain coiled in my stomach, gnawing at me from the inside. there was absolutely nothing beautiful about scarring a body that works so hard to keep going. I can’t make this beautiful or romantic or wistful. but it’s over now. I can breathe. I just want to let that fact be.

I used to practise perfection in the form of open legs and a closed mouth, smiling and saying “hey I won’t be inconvenient for you, baby, after all I’m the granddaughter of the witch you managed to burn”. but god, I’m so tired of being propped up and jadaposed. so tired of the hackling in the street and the fear at night and the “I know you want it” from men who look like knives. I’m so tired of being told my body is too woman to really mean anything.

And I’ve grown tired of hearing speeches like the one I’m making now. I’ve grown tired of saying I was raped and I am black and I am a woman and that I want to make a change. screaming all these facts into a world that remains so deaf to me. deaf to people like me.

deaf to the little girls who are married off to men three times their age. deaf to the teenagers who are prey to older boys and men and teachers. deaf to the women in the workplace. deaf to the trans-girls.

grab em by the pussy and metoo and date rape and “oh my god, him too?”. what am I supposed to do anymore? how am I supposed to structure myself as a sexy woman but not as a woman whose asking for it? how can I explain to others that they should be mad that this world is on fire, rather than that it’s ashes are ugly? when did the common good get so political? I’m so tired of it all. so tired.

there are so many important things to resist and I’m still trying to tell myself that I don’t need to use sex as a currency. that I should not feel forced into it. that my body is my own. but it is not the most important thing about me. all this internalised self hatred for a body that has done nothing but exist.

“Don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me. My words in the dream are like Hamlet’s ghost, the prophecy spurts old blood, one hundred Ophelias of thought have died. Don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me.”

— Moikom Zeqo, from ‘Don’t Talk to Me’, I Don’t Believe in Ghosts: Poems from ‘Meduza’ (trans. Wayne Miller)

I so want to be in bed with you right now, watching the office, wishing pam and jim together. main characters in our own love story, finding magic in even the most normal of places. my head on your shoulder and your hand on my thigh. sighing because god, isn’t this just the stuff of fairytales. aren’t afternoons spent in bed with your lover just inherently magical.

we kiss and we laugh and we get toast crumbs all over the pillowcase. everything I’ve ever wanted is here. everything I’ve ever wanted is you.

he makes me laugh, head thrown back and eyes alive with happiness. he asks me to come closer when we sleep together, squeezes my hips and grins. he tells me I look beautiful in a black dress and heels with my hair messy and tangled but says he knows I’d look beautiful in anything anyway. he kisses my neck and my thighs and my hands and says “baby, you’re the most lovely thing my body has ever loved”. touches me in a way that makes me think, god even the sun hasn’t spilled her light on me like this.

I can’t tell you what it feels like, to have a boy blush when I kiss him, no memorised pick up lines, sauve attitude or cocky mannerisms. he’s so honest, so raw and passionate. so in love. so in love with me.

I used to think love was this anxiety-inducing dance for two, where everything had to be absolutely perfect. where things are painful and frustrating. where I have to chase and beg and call and entertain and cry and lose. always lose. but he’s right here now, sleeping on my shoulder. soft and sweet, with his arms around me.

and I think he’s going to stay.

hi :) my name is moona. I write (and paint!) and this is my poetry/prose blog. feel free to direct message me!! I am constantly in awe of love and how it has sweetened my life, which is why you’ll find a LOT of that shit here. I write about other things too, things that are personal to me and things I’m still learning to be okay with. I truly hope you find solace/healing/joy in my writing and if not, I just hope you can relate to some of it. I’ve found that words have the inimitable power to make us feel less lonely.

enjoy! <3