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cherriblossumsblog · 2 months
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― Ovid, Metamorphoses
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cherriblossumsblog · 2 months
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“In your life, you meet people. Some you never think about again. Some, you wonder what happened to them. There are some that you wonder if they ever think about you. And then there are some you wish you never had to think about again. But you do.”
— C.S.Lewis
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cherriblossumsblog · 2 months
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“The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence.”
— Marianne Moore
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cherriblossumsblog · 5 months
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You wanted someone to drown with you.
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cherriblossumsblog · 5 months
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I am broken fingernails and bruised knees
Scrabbling for a handhold
You are the jagged edge of the melting glacier
We were never meant to be
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cherriblossumsblog · 6 months
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"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I whisper to the stars. "Everyone said that it would get better if I stayed. It wasn't supposed to keep hurting like this." The stars said nothing. I was, as always, alone.
- Things I Might Say in My Last Letter to You
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cherriblossumsblog · 8 months
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it's just - the way you were, the way that you got, back then. the bad rush, the oil spill so high up your neck that your teeth swam in it. what you needed back then was a barn raising. what you needed back then was all-hands-on-deck.
it's just - you needed a village, is all. you needed your parents to actually just cool it for a second, because for one minute if you were very still, in the middle of the act of being roadkill: you could feel it. the edges of that sharp thing, the other-world, the promised land, the bird that was supposed to be born in your throat.
if you'd just - if any one person had just - noticed. maybe that would have been enough. you could have convinced your body to do a strange form of necromancy: you could have come back with the rope ladder. you were an emergency flare. you were morse code.
it's okay. come home again. us do-it-yourself undead, those of us who broke the book and still found our way out of the grave again. we never got the return flight. we never got the party. we just got up. we got up and then we kept going, because nobody else was gonna clean the mess. we might as well. we just... exist here, half-ghosts, barely-made it kids. no medals, except the strange serene rush of spreading jam on perfect toast. of moving a paintbrush. the silence that knows about the danger of sparks. the little candle of our heart not a stormbreaker or earthshaker. just the persistent lick of hope.
it is a quiet reward. we will not get the barn, but we do get each other. a night sky of little lights made from the gruesome survival of blood and bone. the life we made in the dark. a little somber radiance. a spellwork that's all our own.
in the end - despite it all, we built ourselves a home.
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cherriblossumsblog · 9 months
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"It wasn't supposed to be like this," I whisper to the stars. "Everyone said that it would get better if I stayed. It wasn't supposed to keep hurting like this." The stars said nothing. I was, as always, alone.
- Things I Might Say in My Last Letter to You
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cherriblossumsblog · 9 months
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"When I am gone," I asked him, "What will you miss?"
"Everything," he said. Then, after a moment, he added, "But the most devastating thing will be the bobby pins."
I stared at him. "The bobby pins?"
"Everywhere you go, you leave bobby pins. There was a rusted bobby pin in your parking space at work the entire time you worked there. I find bobby pins at my mother's house, at work, in our bed, in the sink - you're always losing them and buying new ones and losing those. I could find you anywhere in the world by following them." He reached up and touched the bobby pin holding my hair out of my face. "And when you're gone, they'll still be around for a while. And then, one day, I'll never find another one. That's when it'll hurt the most."
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cherriblossumsblog · 9 months
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Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.
- John Keats
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cherriblossumsblog · 11 months
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cherriblossumsblog · 11 months
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I reach for you, but there is nothing there. I rest my cheek against the cold dirt and wonder if there ever was.
- poems i write when i am lonely in our room with you
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cherriblossumsblog · 11 months
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-Hinnah Mian, “explaining my depression to my lover” from Pangaea: Poetry and Prose
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cherriblossumsblog · 11 months
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cherriblossumsblog · 1 year
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cherriblossumsblog · 1 year
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cherriblossumsblog · 1 year
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