somebody’s february

eightysixed:

i don’t have many regrets
except,
i didn’t really want to lock the door.
especially if i’d known it was
one of our last winter mornings. fading,
i tried to trust you longer.

safety is easily forgotten.
us in the streets,
our hands separating
when cars drive by,
our feet touching under restaurant tables.

fucking giants,
what were we scared of?
i read a lot, quickly, and
you wrote pieces,
emphasized accents,
dreamed of your words
becoming images straight off the page.

you knocked on the door,
and i pretended not to hear you.
that extra hour of sleep
killed us both.

Each day I begin the page the same. What is it to lose love. And each day I look at the sentence and understand completely the overbearing pathos, the cliche. I am thinking of the way sentences die, or the way someone dies and a sentence cannot hold the weight, of the way language gives way again and again, despite our dreadful longing to get it right … I wrote just now of men and women, of a certain kind of love, and I have not the faintest idea of what I am saying. It is at moments such as this that I believe with every molecule of existence, with all the ridiculous folds of the brain, that language is a parlor trick, a trompe l’oeille that makes us risk lived experience for imagination. To think that a word could hold anything on its small back. What a farce. What a cruel joke. I am an idiot and my hands are addicted.

— Lidia Yuknavitch, “Siberia”

You are born naked; the rest is drag.

— RuPaul

(Source: gaywrites)

settlingbones:

(by gooldays)

A feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life.

— Virginia Woolf (via petitefeministe)

(Source: threemongeese)

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