"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person’s face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of ﬁre underneath the ground: all these things are for you.
They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky.
It’s okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise."
— A Shared Patio (No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July)
"I laughed and said, Life is easy. What I meant was, Life is easy with you here, and when you leave, it will be hard again."
— Miranda July, No One Belongs Here More Than You (via thevividword)
We painted your room like a war zone,
made love like a hand grenade.
When you pulled the pin out with your teeth,
I said, “Damn”
like a hot mess.
Gorgeous is not complex enough to describe
the simple in your overbite,
how beautiful you looked in spray paint haze.
We wrote our names on your wall
before we had ever touched lips, hips, or backbones.
We were just “friends.”
Everything was so hesitant back then,
we were not willing to own up to the butterflies
so we clipped their wings like pagans would,
praised God for the darkness
but knew nothing of their light.
We asked God what he thought of falling in love.
He said, “Damnit”
like he meant it.
Reinvented the crucifix.
Boy, you do not yet know what it means to love.
So I nailed you to the wall
like an air strike
like a poor swung hammer
and a bruised thumb
like we knew nothing of touching galaxies,
but we still stare at the stars like we’ll find gun powder in the dark matter.
We still fire guns like they’re gonna fix problems,
like they are bottle rockets
or bad TV.
Our hands are hollow,
empty teacup handguns.
We are lending bullets to the make-believe,
the quiet gap between my lungs and my liver.
These days, I only poison them socially.
I do not remember what clean air tastes like.
Los Angeles has a way of taking that from people.
She has left me clumsy and short of breath,
but I still follow her drunken hooker step
like I’m gonna find Jesus in the limelight.
I am hungry for wholeness.
I have not yet learned what it means to be better.
I have not written you a letter in three years.
You keep things like love poems and photographs in hatboxes,
I keep things like dog teeth in mason jars.
We are defined differently by the things we hold onto
but I love you
like the most awkward thing you’ve ever done with your body.
A freak show of nothing but moments you’d like to forget.
The deformities we hide on our bookshelves,
like closets full of prom queen cadavers,
beautiful Joe Football, quarterback.
Skeletons are not whole enough to hold your stolen whit in their chest cavities.
I want to be holy like that.
I want to own my prison charm completely.
What does it mean to be fully engaged in the spirit sweep,to be person,
or campfire light,
the under bite,
or the willingness to be bitten?
Your driftwood figure is worth the century old shipwreck.
She said “Damned”
like a first timer.
She had no clue the song she’d sung.
— "Hot Mess" by Alex Sparks (via beautyisanillusion)