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Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.

Stephanie Briar

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We usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.
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Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
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Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.
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Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
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Emotion = Energy in motion.
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If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.
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In my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.
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Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.
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The pain of your memory is sharp enough to be felt the nails raked along my back by somebody else.
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Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.
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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
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Let yourself go a little wild, a little rough around through the edges; the human spirit wasn’t meant for carefully-curated perfection.
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He’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.
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Light finds you just as I once did: an accident that is no accident.
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