“If caring too much makes me “weird,”
then let me be weird.
Let me be five letters that
mean nothing besides
others cannot count the songs
that have wounded them by
the number of bullet holes
in their chest.
Let me be shaking fingers and
tears the color of ink.
If the lump in my throat is not
“inspiration”, as I call it,
then so be it.
I have spent too much energy
bandaging my punched chest
to give a name to each
Swiss cheese hole.
“Weird,” I’ll say,
as I go about stuffing my wounds.
I have a trumpet for a tongue
and twenty piano key toes
that tight rope walk over “weird”
without fear of falling in it.
I am weird.
What else you got?”—Lora Mathis (via kbfoto)
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, “Kiss me harder,” and “You’re a good person,” and, “You brighten my day.” I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
“'Ugly' used to be where I lived.
With insides made up of
broken shutters and cracked self-esteem,
I thought compliments were jokes
being made at my expense.
I poured over teen magazines,
hoping they contained the formula
to make me stop hating myself.
I thought that if I spent my summers
mixing ingredients in my kitchen
to make homemade face scrubs and
hair masks, I would be able to go to school
in the fall a new, likable person.
Do not eat that, do not forget to exercise,
do not leave your house without a coat of
makeup, do not let them see you for who you are,
I told myself each morning.
I fell asleep counting things I wanted to
change about myself and thought
that the secret to liking myself
laid in looking a certain way.
But still, the pimples sprouted like
angry wildflowers in the pavement,
still there was extra fat for me
to squeeze in front of the mirror,
still there were reasons for me
to wish I could sink into the floor.
Walking through the halls became hard,
being anywhere besides under my covers became hard,
even opening my mouth became hard.
In a group, I trained myself to hold my breath
for fear that I would disturb the air by inhaling.
In my free time, I cut out pictures of girls
whose thighs were not scarred, whose faces
did not bear punch mark bruises, whose
chests did not appear to
contain an anvil of reasons to not be alive.
‘Ugly’ used to be all I could see. I was not
young and learning, I was stray hairs, a dirty chin,
matted hair and six tons of self-loathing.
It took me years of being blind to the
beauty in my chipped teeth and grey hairs
to learn that pretty is not a formula you can find.
Pretty is not found in the perfect makeup packages
winking at you behind the counter.
Pretty is not offered in a boys’ mouth
or a bottle of prescription pills.
Pretty will not be found by cutting yourself
to the bone in an attempt to expel whatever makes
you feel so alone. Pretty is a place. Pretty is a state of mind.
And you can only reach it by replacing each
reason in your head of why you are not enough
with a reason why you deserve to be loved.”—
Pretty Is A Place | Lora Mathis
for every anonymous message I get in which someone tells me that they cannot stop hating themselves.