I dreamt that someone asked me if I was over it since, somehow, I seemed like I was.

I said no, and everyone heard it. Even you heard it–but hey, I wasn’t done talking.

I said no, I wasn’t over it. 

But it’s not like anything, or anyone, is trying to stop me anyway. So to be frank, I’m getting there.


Do not be ashamed that you did not end it with the pride of a lioness. It’s okay that he left you, and you clung on to him. You may have broken some fingernails from trying desperately to hold on, but don’t worry. Instead, make sure to leave claw marks on his back, chest, thighs, and arms, anything you can grab on to until you finally let him go – so he will never ever ever be able to forget you. So what if you didn’t get to hear the satisfying powerful click-clacking of your high heels against the pavement had you left him first? There is nothing wrong with dragging yourself away from him, the dead weight of your body tempting you to stop. Pathetic? Maybe. But what matters is, you kept on moving, you kept on crawling, until you were far enough to stand tall again.

Grabbed from Van Gogh is Bipolar’s Facebook status.

the floating world

Lately I keep things
just to throw them away: practice,
practice. What I mean is, I’ve had enough
longing, enough of nothing
ever being enough. Look how the earth
shrugs its mountainous shoulders, how the cows don’t blink
unless there’s a fly, how the pavement quits
to dirt without warning, how the river can’t tell
itself from the rain. Since when can I not
get over anything? Just watch me go
to this town’s lone bar, which is open and chock-full
of blondes, blondes, blondes. The jukebox plays country
for free, which leaves me
with my ballast of quarters and cornered
by a woman who tells me she breaks things: horses
n’ hearts
. I wish she would take
my heart out back and shoot it, lame
as it is, run as it’s been
by you into the ground, but she’d rather teach me
to two-step, which it turns out

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