I became detached from this place.

I woke on fire. Frantically throwing the covers up I stood, compliant to the need to speak, rapid-mutter-mumble, uncontrollably. To pace. But oh you must contain it - [whisper] Hush, hush, the moon sleeps.

(Source: backstabbings, via supernaturalrealisms)

I stood still, swollen and thick. My breasts heavy with milk. Sweating, one hand on the door frame. Staring down in a low-lit hallway to the parquet floors — at my feet, pondering the damage from a fall. What that fall might feel like, and I found it to be, in my thoughts, two things: painful, yes… but a relief.

I was cleaning her bottle that morning when I sensed the fall. When I heard the heavy baritone smack.

“To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering, one must not love. But then, one suffers from not loving. Therefore, to love is to suffer; not to love is to suffer; to suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy, then, is to suffer, but suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy, one must love or love to suffer or suffer from too much happiness. ” - Woody Allen

Third song on shuffle at sunrise

firsttimeuser:

birds in cages„ Bombay,1950s

He sat alone. No one was buying. So beautiful, his blue breast - the red circles on his cheek. A sad clown.

I put him in my hand. He did not struggle. My baby napped, I slipped away - only to arrive at this revelation.

With what intelligence or force had you found your head beneath the grate? Twisting it all the while… 

In a calm acceptance I worked you free. Standing in the sunlight. Neck limp to one side.

4 days ago I had welcomed you home, because you seemed a kindred spirit.