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writingsforwinter:

An excerpt from the recovery part of my second poetry book, Healing Old Wounds With New Stitches.

writingsforwinter:

An excerpt from the recovery part of my second poetry book, Healing Old Wounds With New Stitches.


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Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.
— Anthony Bourdain, No Reservations

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See you again Cristina Yang (because I don’t want to say goodbye lol) [1/?] 


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It All Starts Here
Magic Man - Before The Waves (2,309)

We’ll hold our head’s over the rising tide
We’ll find our way without the city lights
The morning sky never seemed so clear


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Early morning


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Out of Mind
Magic Man - Before The Waves (211)

it’s been a week since I fell apart
they say it’s getting better


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When I first heard he loved you, I knew it was true,
knew that my bruised knees and blue eyes and blurred oceans
were not enough for him. And maybe you were.
I knew it was true that beauty couldn’t buy love,
but I put on more blush. But I hated you. But I laid in bed at night at willed your teeth to rot.
I compared the size of our guts, and our hair, and our luck. But the sun set
and I went down with it.

In the mornings I would wake up uglier,
and you would wake up in his bed. I love to suffer.
I would picture your kisses in my head, make up pet names, wake up dead.
In the mornings you would be at home and he would be happy.

For months, I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t love me.
The calculations were so
ungodly. I’ve seen all the movies. I have short skirts and glitter,
“but he chose her.
He chose her.”
And I’m sorry, but by all rules of science that doesn’t make sense.
I felt your presence in the shower, in my morning coffee,
in the moments of silence to mourn solders and dead men.

Dead bugs circled the drain,
it rained every day for three weeks straight.
I started baking cookies and I tried to change my name.
When he called me, I could hear your heavy breathing in the background.
And I’m sorry.

For months I was so angry. I grew crystals on my kitchen counter
just to crush them. I told my mom that I had a new boyfriend.
I drank to get sick to have an excuse to stay in bed all day Sunday,
and sometimes Monday too. I hated you. I hated him.
I hated my thin fingers and holding my own hands.
For months I played the victim. But you woke up wrapped around him
and I woke up in my own head, a vomit stained bed, a sickness.

I’m sorry.

The truth is,
you are beautiful. And I am beautiful too.
And he wanted you. And that’s fine. I can’t hate you for having what I want to be mine.
I can’t hate him for loving. I can’t blame fate or time.
The truth is that sometimes, love just isn’t right.

And I love him. I love you. I love the way it feels
to apologize. I wake up in the morning,
and paint. The truth is, you deserve him. And I deserve these weeks alone
to work on curbing my envy. To work on waking up happy.

My friends tell me he’s a wild card: to warn you
He’ll Hurt You Too,
and maybe that’s true. But I’m sorry. I don’t wish that for you.

There are rows of dead things in my garden.
Tomorrow,
I think I’ll replant them.

Letter For The Girl He Loves More Than Me; Hannah Beth Ragland

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