Ed io sono così, mi attacco molto alle persone che so non mi farebbero mai male. Poi piano piano inizio a distruggerle, in silenzio, per la troppa gelosia, per la paura che vadano via, per la loro nostalgia, per paura che altri migliori di me le portino via. E quindi inizio con i pianti senza senso nonostante io odi piangere, con i miei film mentali, con l'ansia che mi divora. Inizio ad avere sbalzi d'umore più del solito, sono più fredda e fragile del solito. Divento ció che più odio di me e inizio a stare male, perché qualsiasi cosa facciano senza di me, in modo non dolce mi ferisce, e io perdo la testa. Le paure aumentano, come l'ansia e i film mentali. E alla fine spezzo le persone che mi amano, che per la mia incontrollata gelosia, paura, ansia si spaventano, si stancano, soffrono, e alla fine vanno via. E io ricomincio ad odiarmi di più. Perchè sono un disastro di casino.
i’m trying to stop falling in love with people who don’t see me, don’t stop when i say “no”, who don’t care when i tell them “i don’t want this”. i’ve stopped falling in love with people who only see what they want to see in me, because that means they’ll only take what they want to take and i’m so fucking tired of feeling empty. love shouldn’t be a robbery. love shouldn’t make me into the image you want instead of the woman i am. love shouldn’t turn my soul inside out so you can see the parts you love while ignoring the reality. what i’m trying to say is you don’t love me. you don’t even know me.
—you don’t love me, i just fit the image you have in your head (ap 12.9.18)
at the end of the day, our story is just that. a story. just like characters can develop, we can evolve, and just like the chapters end but the novel never does, we always have a second, third, fourth chance to initiate the plot twist we’ve been waiting for. the truth is that sometimes we become trapped by the stories we tell ourselves. the words that we speak, the people we stress over, cry over, tell ourselves lies over, the ways in which we spend our time, all serve as words in some archaic language that doesn’t communicate meaning anymore. if i had the chance to send a blast email to every person in this world, i’d start the message with: stop writing a story that doesn’t serve you. because at the end of the day, your story is just that. a story. you can fill the pages with love, tragedy, endings, beginnings, laughter, friends, every country in the world, or every person who has ever lived. and fuck the idea that you have to be one person for your entire life. fuck the idea that your identity must exist to make those around you comfortable. fuck the idea that your story has an ending you can’t control. or a plot you can’t write. or a beginning you have to constantly pay for. because at the end of the day, our story is just that. a story. a story that is messy and sometimes random and sometimes deliberate and full of love and moments you write down because you never want to forget them. and your story will always be open to become a reflection of who you are. whoever that is. whoever it becomes. every fucking word is worth reading. every chapter is worth living.
— ap (1.5.19) at the end of the day, your story is just that. a story
Non è scritto da nessuna parte che qualcosa, solo perché è tanto bello, debba durare per sempre. Finisce tutto, finiscono anche le cose belle. L'importante è che ci siano state. Diamo per scontato che d'amore ce ne sia per tutti, ma non è così. L'amore è un miracolo. L'amore, quando arriva, non ci può dire quanto resterà.
The light in your eyes is not the street lamp that will guide me home. All of my friends tell me I make decisions too quickly for my own good, leave people too soon, but I’ve always believed love isn’t a sensation you can think through. You only feel it or you don’t. It’s either there or it’s not, it either exists like a fire in the darkest night your eyes have ever seen or never alighted at all. I’ve tried to run from that truth, I’ve tried to bury myself in arms that felt more like coffins than they did bedsheets. I tried to suffocate so you can breathe, I tried to drown myself because the you wanted me to become a part of your ocean so badly and I could never tell you “no”. I tried. And I tried. And I tried. But everything inside of me yearns for something more. Maybe there is so much darkness inside of me that I crave for the brightest of fires, something that will tear the fabric of my soul apart, but deep down I know you never managed as more than a flicker within me— not because you weren’t enough, but because you believed loving me was a habit instead of a revolution.
ii.
I am so much more than a “good morning” text or compliments I could find on Instagram posts. I am so much more than what you thought I needed to remain comfortable. Fuck, love is so much more than remaining comfortable. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what love is supposed to feel like, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like being trapped. Deep down, I know I am meant for something greater than affection that reeks of routine and the fear that I’ll never find anything better. Love isn’t supposed to be a chore. Love isn’t supposed to feel like passing the time. Love isn’t supposed to be mediocre. Life is too short, too full, too beautiful to be populated by regular love and lovers who cannot understand that affection is more of a revolution than an emotion. I am sorry if I am asking for too much, but I would kill myself before I allow the fires that reside within me to slowly dim in light of an affection that never burned bright enough. I’m sorry women like me don’t come with warning signs, but I pray someday someone will fall in love with me due to the flames alone.
— ap (12.18) loving me was a revolution but you never learned how to handle fire
The light in your eyes is not the street lamp that will guide me home. All of my friends tell me I make decisions too quickly for my own good, leave people too soon, but I’ve always believed love isn’t a sensation you can think through. You only feel it or you don’t. It’s either there or it’s not, it either exists like a fire in the darkest night your eyes have ever seen or never alighted at all. I’ve tried to run from that truth, I’ve tried to bury myself in arms that felt more like coffins than they did bedsheets. I tried to suffocate so you can breathe, I tried to drown myself because the you wanted me to become a part of your ocean so badly and I could never tell you “no”. I tried. And I tried. And I tried. But everything inside of me yearns for something more. Maybe there is so much darkness inside of me that I crave for the brightest of fires, something that will tear the fabric of my soul apart, but deep down I know you never managed as more than a flicker within me— not because you weren’t enough, but because you believed loving me was a habit instead of a revolution.
ii.
I am so much more than a “good morning” text or compliments I could find on Instagram posts. I am so much more than what you thought I needed to remain comfortable. Fuck, love is so much more than remaining comfortable. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what love is supposed to feel like, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like being trapped. Deep down, I know I am meant for something greater than affection that reeks of routine and the fear that I’ll never find anything better. Love isn’t supposed to be a chore. Love isn’t supposed to feel like passing the time. Love isn’t supposed to be mediocre. Life is too short, too full, too beautiful to be populated by regular love and lovers who cannot understand that affection is more of a revolution than an emotion. I am sorry if I am asking for too much, but I would kill myself before I allow the fires that reside within me to slowly dim in light of an affection that never burned bright enough. I’m sorry women like me don’t come with warning signs, but I pray someday someone will fall in love with me due to the flames alone.
— ap (12.18) loving me was a revolution but you never learned how to handle fire
