“I know a boy who called his girlfriend’s body a “crime scene.” Dad, my body is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body is a brush fire. It’s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of them. It isn’t raining anymore. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long love letters but I don’t think he loves me. I think I’m used up. I think I’m the grit under his nails, the girl who looks good in pictures. I don’t think he loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it’s because they broke me. I heard about two girls recently, two women crushed like cherries in a boy’s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My body is melted wax, it is ripe and stink and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don’t hate men, Dad, I don’t. I want a washing machine. I want someone else to do the dishes, someone to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She’s an angry bitch — she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don’t make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I’m a sick girl, a crazy wishbone. I have razors under my tongue. I’m sorry I cut you, Dad, I’m so—so sorry. I gave you a card for Father’s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your laugh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I can’t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch? I used to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches me anymore because I’m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up. They cracked me open, Dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it. You don’t want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark thick of purple and black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had freckles. He needs medicine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a hive. I am red ants and jellyfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom in an alley in Jersey City. I don’t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus in biohazard tank. A Polaroid pinned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I’m hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough girl for too long. My body is a wafer, a thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue.”
— Jeanann Verlee, “Communion”
Be gentle with yourself. Be patient. He will be a disease you’ll take weeks, possibly months trying to pick from your bones. Don’t rush in licking them clean and not tasting him anymore. You’re only fooling yourself because your tongue has him memorized. Don’t hurry the doctors when you’re lying on the operating table and they’re trying to piece back your heart, his fingerprints all over it like Braille. Take it day by day. Wake up and remind yourself to eat something that will keep your knees from surrendering when you hear he has been seeing another girl, and is doing just fine without you. Smash things, throw a tantrum, it’s okay to feel broken. There’s no need to rid your room of him right away. It’s too soon and you know it. You’ll cry about it tomorrow when your fingernails are stained with blood and peeling and you smell terrible because you’re digging in the trash trying to get him back. Pull up your blinds, open your windows and let the world swallow his scent that’s smothered between your sheets. Remind yourself that there is still Frozen Yogurt. There is still books, and flowers—lots and lots of flowers. The universe will never stop giving birth to them, and they are here for you. Take all his little gifts and place them in a box. Put it somewhere his ghost can’t haunt you from. When you can swallow his name without choking, get a shovel and dig until it suffices to the emptiness burned within you. Bury the box. Give it a funeral and give your condolences and wish the love you guys once shared a nice life wherever it may be. There’s no shame in crying, or missing him. That’s part of the process. Cry until your belly aches. Cry until you start to laugh. Cry until your silence grows thick and your pulse is the loudest sound in the room. This is when the curtain closes. This is when the show is over and you realize you need to leave, because he already has. Say it to yourself. Say it louder. They say that when someone we love dies, we need to hear the doctor tell us “so-and-so is dead” in order to believe it. To accept it. So tell yourself that he’s gone. Say it so loud the walls are left shaking. Say it: he’s gone.
Tumblr Run Mini Meet Up is a 3km fun run along the sidewalks of Mall of Asia. We will be providing hydration station every kilometer.
Assembly is at the Vikings Fountain at 3:30 PM.
Those who are interested to join are encourage to bring an extra shirt and have a proper running outfit.
I also asked everyone to please TA me your number as I am making a data base of the participants.
Poster Credit: bossmarx.tumblr.com
well, here’s to all of you who live and breathe running. I made the poster and it’s cool as fuck, so you all better support this fucking run :)
for more details you can ask and message ohpatrick :)
All Year Round - Up Dharma Down. The first stanza of this song made me love the song, it goes “tired of swimming through, solar systems. Looking for my earth to call home” I went “in your face” with this allusion to finding the one, so here’s a girl underwater (well, kinda looks like it) #art #illustration #sketch #drawing #draft #wip #udd #updharmadown #conceptual #girls #vsco #vscocam