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What is there to say? Everything is hard. Returning phone calls. Not choking when I try to speak. Getting out of bed. What is there to do? I put foot in front of foot and trust that I will not wobble enough to give myself away. Pour concrete into my mouth to have an excuse for struggling with answering questions. Stare at the window. Look at hills and think of five years from now, of eventual sleep, of digging a hole and jumping inside. I train myself to half-listen when others speak and still hear the noise in my chest. I nod appropriately. What else is there? Get up. Go. Go. Go. Pause. Go. Accelerate. Go. Go go go. No stop. No exit. No time to reflect. Just experience after experience, and then the shaky seconds spent recovering from them. Pouring black coffee into wounds. Getting your feelings hurt over people who are not thinking of you in that way, have never thought of you in that way. Wasting time playing the game, the same game, hoping it will work this time around. I have put all of my effort into things that never wanted me back, in hopes that I could change the outcome. How else can I communicate this? I do not want to try anything, with anyone, anymore.
Anything Anyone Anymore, Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
I know my being happy is an anomaly. No one knows me better than you. But I can say without avoiding your gaze, without crossing my fingers behind my back; or the other things I do when speaking untruthfully—I am happy. I know the rain does not discriminate between day or night and either will hold its own light and dark—but now, at this very moment, I feel like I am the sun. And I know in my heart, I will always look upon this time—not without a sense of melancholy—that it was the happiest in my life.
Lang Leav  (via lovequotesrus)

(Source: langleav)

I am more than: my relationship status. My job. My age. My sexual orientation. My degree or lack of. My last name. My appearance. My gender. My sex. My short comings.

I am: rusted thoughts. A bloody tongue. Every city I have breathed in. Every bedroom I have loved in. Piles of words. Twisted metaphors. My thoughts. My actions. My dreams.

And I am not looking to be loved. I am looking to be seen.

I Am Not | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

this is very true but i still forget about this often

(via lora-mathis)

It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to bend
to whatever song is playing in
your head.
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
tangled hair.
Your good morning,
every morning.
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
perfections.

I want to talk about you.
Flawed. Crooked.
Endlessly
interesting.
You.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via larmoyante)

yes i wrote this thank you 

(via lora-mathis)
you said talking to yourself
is a good way to deal with pain
so i had a conversation with myself
all night long
confessed the ways i have hurt myself
and expressed gratitude for the ways
i have helped myself
i marked bruises with bloody hang nails
and kissed long untouched skin.
i stayed up all night
apologizing and complimenting
and fell asleep to the hum of my voice

when i woke up
i felt suddenly freer
and my sore vocal chords
hummed in relief and contrition
as i thought,
i am not a writer
i am a person who talks to themselves
to understand
a poem i wrote after reading someone’s reply on a post i made, goodnight | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
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