January 8th 2022 update:

Recently I had my phone crash and I took it to a repair place that got burglarized. So, I lost all my photos and video from the past 3 years (because I didn’t ever back it up) which has sent me into a spiral of sentimentality going through old dropboxes that I used to back my phones up to for yeaaaars until I apparently got lazy. I found heaps of stuff from an old relationship from 2010/11-2013. What I found interesting was that dropbox is chronological. Or mine is set up that way at least. The very first image was my ex followed by three videos laughing in the park while I chased him around begging him to sing and he gave in and started to sing as he ran away and I playfully chase him while recording. And that was followed by a video of him saying he loves me and kissing me. It’s funny because this was the FIRST THING I see when I logged into this account. How sweet. It’s as if I loved this person so much I NEEDED to know I had these moments saved and backed up forever. I smiled looking back at them, I found myself up past 3am laughing at some of them. And as I grew deeper in and the years pass - I remember why I loved this person so deeply and instead forget about how they hurt me and betrayed me. I know now that we are all wounded. We know we aren’t supposed to love each other until we love ourselves but how many of us ever follow that rule? I know that I go back and forth with my demons sometimes, try my damndest to not let them win. I have thousands of photos and videos in this account - I only made it to 2014. But there it was. A chronological memory guide to one of the most powerful relationships that helped shape who I am now. As I scroll closer to present day I see an evolution of not only the relationship but of myself. Happiest to happiest to a fatal break to many blows that crushed me in a way I’ve never been made to feel by anyone else that’s ever loved me. He was my best friend that all my other best friends hated at the end. None of those friends are friends I keep now. I saw myself descending in these memories. The drinking. The going out every night. How long did that blindness last? I might have stopped scrolling at middle of 2014 but I know that blindness is the same thing that carried me into the arms of someone I shouldn’t be in more times than one. The blindness that’s rooted in our heartbreak. It comes and goes depending on how lonely we get, depending on the weather, or how our day at work goes.

I always wonder if I was a landmark or a landmine to people I’ve loved. What imprint do I leave? I’m torn between that quote that goes “what others think of me is none of my business.” But I would kill to know where the memory of me fits in someone’s brain. I just want to know those things as someone who remembers so vividly all my feelings about people. I know in my past friendships during that time I wanted to push everyone out. At 30, I now know I needed to push those friends out to make space for the people I have now who will be buried truly knowing and accepting ME. I know I was a monster in my past life but I hope people I hurt know how broken I was. Not because of the one failed relationship or heartbreak but because my inner child felt like she didn’t deserve a love that came free. That’s what hurts most about a failed relationship—that voice saying “you weren’t worthy of the love you thought you had.” But it’s not true. I know that now. But I didn’t at 23. At 22/23 I was out for blood—I’ll hurt you first because I’ll never be hurt again. That’s not true either. Not if you’re living openly. I hope I can keep doing that. I hope I was your landmark, but if I was your landmine — it’s probably best I’m erased from the cavity of mind.

What I’m up to now. Selling my handwoven bookmarks. Trying to get a boob job. Help a girl out. Her back hurts. $15/each or buy two for $25. Free shipping on US orders. DM @phoebewho on Instagram.

violetline:

“I want a clap on lamp that works as a polygraph; when you swear you still love me, the lights flicker”

- Megan Falley

I read and reread this poem so many times during a time I was with someone unfaithful that I can still recite it forwards and backwards to this day.

all i had to do to finish on my own today

a random memory on a couch echoed

“we can practice,”

in the quickness I remembered what it was like

when I felt the slowness of a love

I was horribly afraid of

and

I rub salt on my weakest spots

there are many more now

still as hidden as they first were,

but then again,

maybe not at all.

Any writers or artists using Ello? I signed up a few years back but just redownloaded the app and it’s actually kind of awesome. DM me if you want my username for future prose / poems / photos!

Writing is like a dare you don’t want to do but have to because you don’t want to be the little chicken shit you think you are.

Writing is like a promise you didn’t have any business making but now feel guilty every time you ignore it’s conception.

Writing is like a pot pie, soggy and disgusting, and people invite you over for dinner to share anecdotes and you have to pretend you want to participate even though it pains you to ingest it.

Writing is like the beautiful blunt you made but can’t smoke because of the pain in your throat from a non-cancerous tumor.

Writing is like the time you got cast a lead in a play and memorized it beautifully and opening night forgot all your lines because you didn’t want to get vulnerable in front of strangers.

But writing is also like a bandage, stickily forming around your wounded body, your oozy and bloody bits, here to mend - in all of it’s ugly bindings.

I cried twice watching Honey Boy today - I remembered some things I’d forgotten. I recited a poem in my head but forgot it before I thought to write it down. I am painfully forgetful, but I remember everything that I need to forget.

looking for an out because I forgot why I wanted in. Your power is impossible to forget when it even speaks to you in your dreams. Sorry sorry sorry. Ramble a lot. We do have a decision to be free or to start paying a discerning cost. If you don’t know what I mean

you’ll never know who I am

fuckyeahyoga:

both of these birds are me

It’s all a game, baby

and I don’t remember how to play fair.

I want to be there

on roaring mountaintops along the north western borders

protected by the dog men fear with sharp teeth and the bad name

I want to be there

alone in my bed at nineteen smiling about feeling alive wondering not when it would end but why so many people let it

where does the dream end and the nightmare begin? I forget to ask myself every damn time.

told myself I would never let them hit me, but forgot to mention all the other ways someone can hurt you

that time you grabbed my arm so tight I lost control of a moving vehicle, so drunk and aimless, you told me you’d kill me. you told me things I’d heard in all sorts of different words of another man.

but I was hearing them twenty years later.

Never thought I’d be here again - but the past repeats. You just don’t remember.

you don’t remember but it still counts

because I can’t forget

I want to be there.

in the lilac bush in the backyard where my mom dug up bones while gardening

would like to escape through the small space in time where the deer hangs to drain every ounce left of it’s blood and the aftershave and cigarette smell distances

i would relive that moment again willingly to remind myself of real fear. To remind myself what my mother and I were thinking - we escape to live, but in pursuit of freedom - we may die.

I want to be there

in the car on a hot summer night by the water with a perfect stranger, trading stories, feeling safe, laughing

I want to be there

between the orange trees in the southwest waiting for the bus - taking off my shirt - because I’ve given up in the heat

my fingers peel back the skin of the fruit and I wonder how the juice that dripped down my chest felt could have felt so cold

wanting to feel it again

I smile because I am comfortable like no one is wondering about my state of mind

I want to be on that couch - where his parents sat outside the room - surely able to hear but definitely able to walk inside and see two naked bodies

dreaming about the future but afraid of it

I want to be there

past the short stories and into the full length and questioning if they can handle it.

ready to talk so sorry in advance to those involved who are listening

I want to be there

in that happy place

writing epitaphs.

or.

dancing topless to connie francis in the kitchen

not worried about anyone

anyone.

except myself.

I want to be there

still.

pochiyo:

Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t say “yes”, don’t say “no”, say “later”. Is this why people say “maybe” when they mean “yes”, but hope you’ll think it’s “no” when all they really mean is, “Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that”?

André Aciman, “Call me by your name”