Nothing better than roaming a couple hundred acres of land to find the perfect tree, and cutting it down with your own hands. I made some cinnamon ornaments and butternut squash soup. Christmas in full effect. The city was beautiful last night.
He, the light of
A thousand orbs,
Circling the drain
That is my current
State of mind.
His eyes are deeper
Than the curves of Route 1,
Like a winding labyrinth made up
Of all the books I’ve ever read.
The thickest plot line there is;
An existential conversation
About crystals and tarot cards and
Borrowing lost time from strangers.
We are one.
A hymn about two bodies dipping
And simmering together,
Floating like clouds over the breaking waves of the Atlantic.
I have contractions but he is
Drenched in camomile tea.
RIP Nelson Mandela.
Spent another sleepless night pouring over the archives of myself as night flickered along our walls. It was like watching the aurora borealis tango with the sky, weaving it’s colored body in and out of the darkness. I felt myself weightless, impending, as my skin formed goosebumps. Almost like the Braille of my past, my body telling me where I had been and where I could be going, now.
Someone told me not to feel guilty about the awful disconnect I feel from his unborn self. It’s nights wishing I wasn’t so selfish, so broken up over my inability to heal from sickness or to expand without the aches of a much older body. I’m painfully aware of how ridiculous it sounds to want this so badly months ago and now, begging for it to be over. This is so much harder than you’d think.
And yet women are factories, expected to manufacture this perfect person without complaint and wear a delightful smile over a dinner table filled with delectable meals. But I am not a factory. I am just the smog pollution, spit out by the stacks, wishing I had a cigarette to fill this unbearable void.
Anonymous asked: Your writing is beautiful and speaks to great inner strength. You'll be okay.
This is precious to me, thank you.
Spent another fucking night in the hospital, this time with intense contractions timing at two minutes apart. I can’t explain how terrifying it is to be 11 weeks away from full-term and experiencing pre-term labor symptoms, especially while I’m alone. I’m home now, at 4am, and trying to get some rest.
I’m so scared of what could happen the next few weeks, but I’m trying to stay centered and remember that I can’t predict the future nor can I stop whatever is meant to happen.
I feel like this blog is the only place I can consistently document what’s happening.
five--a--day asked: I just wanted to tell you congratulations. And that you're so beautiful. And that all the light in the world seems to live behind your skin.
This is such a sweet message - much better than the “damn gurl Youz a hot prego”. Thank you so much, and I really hope you’re feeling lovely.
Anonymous asked: Daaaamn, youse a damn sexy prego gurl
Hahaha wow, thanks.