Nightingale

Perhaps if men spent half as much time criticizing rape culture as they do policing women’s behaviour, we might get somewhere

If your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. / Darling, darling. I live in you, and you would die for me. I love you so / You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me, and still come with me, and hating me through death and after.

When my body has rotted beneath the soil and the worms have eaten away what remains, I know her name will be all that is left of me

#Me! #Me! I have always been a femme at heart

I wonder if the dead ever yearn for the living as desperately as I yearn for everything that remains beyond my reach

I carry a funeral procession within me, mourning the deaths of every dream, every possibility, and every version of myself I had to leave behind.

When will I have branches enough to reach the skies, leaves enough to shelter little creatures, and roots enough to call this earth my home?

Sometimes I wonder if I was born with a little mourning dove nesting somewhere beneath my ribs ;)

I often wonder what it means to be alive when I know that one day I will have to surrender every little thing I have ever called mine.

I walked beneath the night sky tonight and saw you. For a moment, I wondered whether you were truly as distant as you appeared or whether distance was simply something I had invented to make sense of my inability to reach you. Perhaps that is what we do with everything beyond our understanding, we give it a name, admire it from afar, and call that knowing.