I’m dark matter. The universe inside of me is full of something, and science can’t even shine a light on it. I feel like I’m mostly made of mysteries.
I think of the note.I want to say me too.I want to say I know.I want to say I can read the gaps in your sentences. I can read the space between your letters. I know your language. It’s my language too.I want to say that.
I was a protestor. I was such a protestor that I regularly protested things that might have been good for me.
You are strong enough to sing as you wish, not as your pain has forced to. You aren’t your hurt. You’re other than that. You are not the broken things you’ve been.
You are strong enough to sing as you wish, not as your pain has forced you to. You aren’t your hurt. You’re other than that. You are not the broken things you’ve been.
I know everyone has dreams of flying, but this isn’t a dream of flying. It’s a dream of floating, and the ocean is not water but wind. I call it a dream, but it feels realer than my life.
I can’t imagine a universe in which I try to unlove her.
I think about celestial junk. Like, maybe every planet in this solar system is discarded by giant hands. Each star a crumpled ball of paper, a love letter lit on fire, a smoldering bit of cigarette ash.
Even people who’ve never seen a miracle can believe in miracles.
I like the sky. It’s rational to me in a way that life isn’t.