One thing I don’t understand about our society is this huge double standard we have when it comes to money, especially what I’ve noticed in people my own age. If our parents have money, and we were raised in money, we are considered shallow and privileged (as a first impression), and our first impression of poorer people is people who know struggle and hardship and therefore better for it. But our parents are the ones that got us to the lives we were born into, and we are told to get jobs that will make us a lot of money, so we can earn a living and raise our kids with the best standards possible, and we are proud to say that we worked hard enough to make that much money and give our kids the best we can, and yet a lot of kids on my college campus are embarrassed/ashamed to say that their parents are rich because they’ll be judged for that?
We are all constantly looking for excuses that explain why we do what we do, anything other than “I did it because I wanted to do it.” Because that’s the way to unguardedly open yourself up to judgments or rejections, and it’s terrifying to brutally commit to the truth, and let someone outside of your own head in.
Stop letting yourself be defined by memories of past screw ups, because all that’s going to do is prevent you from moving forward.
My soul is tired and it needs a nap but life won’t stop moving.
Why the fuck do women feel the need to compete against one another?
When I see a girl who’s confident, or worldly, or cute, I’m compelled to befriend her. Brilliance is magnetic; I love surrounding myself with people who embody beauty, intelligence, and success. Belittling and saying cruel things about other women’s accomplishments — even if they’re prettier, smarter, or wealthier than me — is the last thought to cross my mind.
Lately, I’ve witnessed far too many unnecessary attacks stemming from jealousy, and it’s such a shame. Criticising and envying somebody’s successes doesn’t draw you closer to your own.
I’m having one of those weeks where I just can’t deal with people and all I want is to be curled up alone with my thoughts and my books and my music and I wish social media wasn’t around to remind me that life is still going on without me.
I keep wondering if your feet would edge off of the end of my bed.
Today to break the silence you said, “If you could go anywhere in the world in this exact moment, where would you go?” I wouldn’t make this up. I know poets do that, root pretty sentences out of nothing, but these knuckles, bloodied from fighting words for something better than just blue or love, are not a poet’s knuckles, and this, three in the morning warring sleep because I can’t turn how your voice sounds when you speak about sanctuary into words — this is not poetry.
If this were a poem, and if I were a poet, I would have looked at you and said, “Anywhere with you.”
Because this isn’t, and because I’m not, I looked away and said, “Honestly, honestly, I have no idea.”
I am not good at words, or bravery, or looking you in the eyes.
Ask me again, but this time keep your eyes down.
Your bed, or mine: our feet, overlapping, both edging off the mattress like a dare, or like love, whichever sounds better, whichever makes you twitch for a pen — does that sound like a place that you’d like?
Tell me, does it sound like poetry?