indie/nature
Photo - AD Italia, September 1984
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i want to be in the passenger seat of your car. i want to be brave enough to reach over and take the hand that isn’t on the wheel. i know i spend too much time studying you, it’s because i can’t conjure you as often as i like; despite all of the discomfort that comes up in being in this body, i want to remember it, i want to remember it. i want to remember. you’re laughing at 12am and you absentmindedly play with my hair. i’ve never told anyone but i always wanted to have that. i don’t know how to explain that it’s not that I’m damanged because i wasn’t held enough, but because the contact i had wasn’t enough. my therapist says that i should try ego-centric approaches, allow younger me to sit in that room. it seems, disgusting to reject the years of love i got. i read somewhere that touch has a memory, when i soothe myself it’s like i am detached from myself, the flesh is warm but the connection never there. it becomes too much sometimes, thinking about all the love i waste. it’s that i waste things, i think this is the foundation of my own heartbreak. the world offers me love, and i choke.
𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬. (12. 12. 21)
― Salma Deera, Letters From Medea
[text ID: The centre of every poem is this: / I have loved you. / I have had to deal with that.]
