“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea—how free.”
— Sylvia Plath, “Tulips”
(via goodreadss)
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Blue is boring, a stutter of a cliché that goes unnoticed but somehow sounds wrong when it comes out as justification.
But this winter you buy a blue coat and it brings out your eyes, does something to all the reflection in the world and they say,
‘You look all ocean today, you’re blue blue blue.’
And it’s like maybe this is the place between the sky and the sea.
You want to say, will this always have something to do with me?
You want to say, do that again, open me up, see where all the blue sits real.
You pretend it all means nothing, don’t say anything,
squint up at them and wonder if you’re under the sky or above it, wonder if you’re in it or if it’s in you, wonder if it’s something drowned or something soft,
and then
still think that their’s are warmer.
“It’s not my responsibility to be beautiful, I’m not alive for that purpose. My existence is not about how desirable you find me.”
— Warsan Shire
(via goodreadss)
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