Joyce. Veinte años. Soy un trabajo en progreso; soy un bosquejo mal hecho.

onism

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time, which is like standing in front of the departures screen at an airport, flickering over with strange place names like other people’s passwords, each representing one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die—and all because, as the arrow on the map helpfully points out, you are here.

"Until you have been the last ones sitting in the café on the corner and she has kissed the dark rum from the rim of your glass and schooled you in the art of eating artichokes…until then, you are not yet woman. Until you put soft leaf to lip, touch tongue to flesh, bite the lobe, swallow the juice she says will purify you, until you open it up, sigh at the colour, see its very middle and learn what fingers are best at…
until you reach further still into that thick, hot, heart life has not yet started.
Before you had been promised. Before she is a liar. Before you are dismantled, fixed and broke again you are not yet a lover. Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love
…love is mostly ill advised but always brave.
The most important thing to do is not to worry. The lines on your face will never stop the sun from coming up. Your tears cannot affect the weather. There are wars going on. The one in your body is the only one you can be sure of losing
or winning, then losing again. You drink more water than rum, these days, don’t you? But you drink to her memory, don’t you? And you only take artichokes in salad. Never whole. Not in a café on a dusky street at midnight. Not with her. Never with her, or anyone like her.”

'artichokes'

Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at amazon.com

(via yrsadaleyward)

adronitis

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone—spending the first few weeks chatting in their psychological entryway, with each subsequent conversation like entering a different anteroom, each a little closer to the center of the house—wishing instead that you could start there and work your way out, exchanging your deepest secrets first, before easing into casualness, until you’ve built up enough mystery over the years to ask them where they’re from, and what they do for a living.

"

I haven’t been home in nearly two weeks.
My new lover has a fridge full of beer
and can almost make jollof rice
also the sex is good
and we are falling into something we will soon mistake for love

anyway,
‘home’ is a problem. There are the bills and there
are the mice
plus
there is that feeling you get
when you catch up with yourself.

'the not quite love'

Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’

now available at amazon.com

(via yrsadaleyward)

"‘I care,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I care so much that I do not know how to tell you without it seeming inconsequential compared to how I feel. Even if I am distant at times and seem as if I do not want to be with you, it is only because this scares me, too.’”
— Aimee Carter (via hellanne)
©