You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: friends

Queer moon, we are guided by your tides

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The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight. I mean, if you want to get technical with me, here you go: the moon is a circle so technically it can’t be straight. Anyway.

The moon is definitely queer. Totally in love with the sun and her rays but screws around with the stars in the dark. They don’t mind that he’s a little naughty – that she’s a little naughty – that they’re a little naughty.

The moon would definitely call itself fluid, spreading itself across the day and night sky. Non-binary bright. Lesbian lunar. Bisexual bright. It’s no wonder we’re so affected by the tides. The moon is definitely gay. Nothing can sparkle that much and be straight.

Nothing can sparkle that much despite thousands upon thousand trying to put it out. Nothing can sparkle that much without having been set on fire. Nothing can sparkle that much against the shadows that try and cut it down to size.

Too many shadows have taken too many of your shapes, squashing your fabulous, your fierce, your fight. You, forced to be half-moon – half you – semi-circle so sickle the length of years in your arms. You will outlive centuries of being trapped here.

When they stare at you and point from afar, don’t you dare blink. Don’t you dare look away. Don’t shuffle your feet, gay goddess. Don’t dim your man in the moon face. Look on. Light up. Love. Sparkle. They can learn a thing from you.

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Why I’m switching off for 59 minutes every day

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The signs are easy to spot: eat less, drink more, joke less, stress more, sleep less, complain more, create less, isolate more, and the list will become very long if I don’t stop there. The signs of what? Being constantly connected, not switching off and furiously consuming information in an attempt to feed the demand for ongoing creativity and keep the slight suggestion of FOMO at bay.  I love being connected; I love social media (as is evident by the eight platforms I actively use every day) and I love engaging in a way that allows me a wider network of people without even looking up from my screen.

When I’m standing in a checkout queue, I’m reading headlines and scanning magazine covers; when I’m cycling home, I’m taking snapshots of stories stuck to lamp posts. When I feel like nature’s restroom call is a waste of time (though very necessary), I’m reading the tacky posters on cubicle doors, ingredients in the air freshener and any scrawls that a drunk someone scratched into the paint the night before. Don’t judge, we’ve all been that person – reading the labels to pass the not-so-sweet time.

Read the full story over at Little Miss.

 

I am good with my hands; you are good with my heart

A love letter of lost love:

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My darling,

I know you love my writing but it’s easy to hide behind words that sound beautiful and it’s easy to draw meaning from words where meaning wasn’t meant. What I’m trying to say is… today I am simply going to say what I mean and if it happens to sound beautiful, then so be it.

I know. though, that nothing I write will ever be as beautiful as you. I could use the most sophisticated, glamorous, superfluous words that exist… No possible combination of human sounds could ever be as glorious as the sound your silhouette makes when I close my eyes. No poem will ever be as perfect as your lips, nor the darkest tale reflect even a fraction of the depth of your eyes and of your soul.

Your voice has a ring to it, and it calls me all the time. Grace is the sound you make when you talk. You are only gentle and guiding. Regal, you are, gorgeous.

I know I am good with my hands; I know you are good with my heart. I know there is dust in my lungs and sometimes I lose my mind trying to fight out of the fog.

So I will always bury myself into your chest, and lose myself between your every breath and you’ll be the only one to find me. I fear that if anyone else should find me first they would try and uproot me from where I’ve planted myself between your ribs. Don’t let me go. Do not let them know I am safe with you here. Leave only a breath of a fingerprint on the atmosphere.

You are safe. You are splendid. You are like nothing else I have ever wanted.

I was always afraid I would never fall in love. It’s not the kind of thing you can explain properly if you’ve never felt it. Actually … I’m not sure if it’s explainable even after it’s been felt.

See, falling in love is perhaps an experience or moment shaped simply by everyone’s own interpretation of what it’s meant to be. We’re thousands of years into existence and we’re still writing about it. Love. It is massive. It is immeasurable. It is infinite. So it begs to be said that when you say you love me… I still wonder where I’m going to find space to put it all because I am small… I am so small, my darling, and you love so big.

I’ll make the next part quick, but it felt like a whirlpool. Maybe that’s why I dream of water sometimes – there was so much all of not enough everywhere you and I couldn’t swim quick enough to come up for air before swallowing water and there’s always a lot of coughing and spluttering and gasping after that… We are breathing together now, but back then…

I tried to stay away for a while, or at least until… the moment they told me I couldn’t have you, you were all I wanted; the moment they told me you couldn’t hold me, you were all I needed close; the moment they told me I had to rise above you, was the moment I fell in love with you. I’ve fallen for you so many times I’ve forgotten how it feels to stand on my own two feet.

And I know now what they mean when they say, you have to be cruel to be kind. Love is kind, but it also hurts like a bitch. And it leaves burns and it bleeds and there are scars and gravel-filled knees and broken bones and perhaps the greater the injury, the greater the depth of love because no one falls that hard and gets up without a scratch.

And counting everything in our wake – not a moment spared, I would not have had it any other way. I love you. I love you every bump and scratch and scab. I love you every plaster cast and brain scan. I love you the messy and weak. I love you healthy. I love you strong and wild and free. I love you mending and bandaged and laughing. You are everything that no one else could ever be for me.

You have given meaning to thousands of songs I’d always heard but never understood. And I want no other. Only you. I do. I do. I do.

I love you.

If you’re reading this, you’ve attempted suicide at least once

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I know this is a bold and brazen statement to make when I know nothing of your life. Even if you haven’t actually tried to kill yourself, I am certain the thought has crossed your mind because light can’t always be seen from the darkness. This is not a judgement; this is for me as much as it is for you.

If you are reading this and have escaped the untimely claws of death then let me tell you I am glad you’ve made it so far. I am glad the blade didn’t cut deep enough, the gas didn’t work fast enough, the words didn’t shatter hard enough, the platform wasn’t high enough, the pills didn’t poison your insides enough, the rope didn’t hold long enough, the water didn’t flood deeply enough, the darkness wasn’t thick enough.

I am glad that you are breathing – even through corrupted lungs. I am glad you get to witness another day. I am glad you are reading this. I am glad you are here and because of that I am not alone. You are not alone either and perhaps that’s the point of it all. Look closely and you’ll notice that the difference between “living” and “loving” is one letter. Perhaps if we focus more on loving each other we’ll do better at living together – less alone.

Loving is a strange concept when it’s a wrestle to even acknowledge you’re worth something, but stick with me for a short while…

See, loving (read: “living”) is not some abstract, esoteric, out-of-touch, emotionally-charged feeling reserved for those lucky enough to find their soulmate. Loving (read: “living”) is for all of us. It’s practical. If loving (read: “living”) doesn’t involve action – a doing word – then it carries no meaning. Ergo, if living doesn’t involve action it carries no meaning.

Loving is easier than we make it out to be; living is easier than we make it out to be. It’s the dying that requires hard work. It’s the giving up and giving in that requires planning and effort but ultimately stops us from moving… stops us from meaning. It’s our resolve to fight for meaning that keeps us in motion; our resolve allows us to love and to live.

The fight for meaning looks different for everyone; it looks different for me and it looks different for you. The fight for meaning sometimes looks like excavating yourself from under the covers after a night of weeping. Sometimes it looks like habitually making a cup of coffee in the morning because this small ritual gives you purpose. Sometimes the fight takes the form of religion, sport, art, sleep, parties, treatment or travel. Sometimes the fight is finding yourself on the doorstep of a friend quietly asking if you can stay a while.

We are all fighting to live – to love. Surely this means we all have something to offer – to give. We have all defied death for a chance to try again – to persevere. If you’re reading this you’ve probably attempted suicide at least once before (physically, mentally or emotionally) but you have the chance now to help someone else or yourself – to be alive.

I see you. I acknowledge you. I salute your life. I am glad you are here. Keep fighting to love, to give, to persevere, to be alive.

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I would love to hear your story if you need someone to talk to or just want to share. Feel free to comment below or send me an email directly here. I am here to listen and not to judge. I am here to fight and love with you.