"I always walk three steps behind him to his left. Anything that comes toward him from behind, I encounter first. I can clearly see what advances to his right and his left. I also have my sights on what approaches ahead. If I stand beside my King, I can only focus on what’s ahead and if he swings his sword…I will surely be struck. Three steps behind is the most powerful position for a Queen."
how this scene should have gone
I never realized what a big deal that was. How amazing it is to find someone who wants to hear about all the things that go on in your head.
“When she comes
She pulls you close
She breathes in short bursts
Her eyes close
Her head tilts back
Her mouth opens slightly
Her thighs turn to steel, and then melt
She is perfect
And you feel like you are everything.”
― Henry Rollins
do you ever go through those phases where you just don’t feel like talking to anyone for a few days and it’s not because you’re mad or anything you just don’t feel like talking???
Not a few days, I have been feeling like this my whole life.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
I like the way you say my name when I stare off into space. I like the way you reach your hand over the car console and grab my hand. I like the way you kiss the back of my neck when I am cooking. I like the way you say, “Look at this!” and then bring the computer over to me so I can see. I like the way you want to go on adventures with me, and only me. I like the way you hold me at night, but how you let go when we get too hot, when it it is time for real sleep. I like the way you laugh, the way you pour our beers, the way you push a shopping cart. I like how you like me, how you love me without saying it. I am not very important to anyone, except you, and I don’t care. That’s the best compliment I can give anyone, you know.
Loving you feels like building a time capsule, but I guess all good things are bound, in the end, to feel like that.
“You roll your mouth off him, his taste still smothering your tongue when he says, “There is someone else.”
You laugh. The last time you saw him was a year before when he forced you out of his car somewhere in Queens because you hit him in the arm. He came back ten minutes later, drove you to your dorm at NYU, and you didn’t talk for almost a year when he sent you an email saying he missed you. You thought you loved him, so you invited him to your mom’s house in the Hamptons. He said yes, so you thought that maybe he loved you, too.
You look at the clock next to your bed. It is midnight - officially your birthday.
“Her name is Jackie,” he continues.
You laugh again. Your bed creaks; through the wall, you can hear your mother snoring.
“I really like her,” he says. “I mean I like you, but it’s, it’s just different.”
This is when you ask the question you shouldn’t. “What do you mean different?”
“You know that pumpkin cheesecake we had tonight?”
You nod. Every October, every birthday, your mother’s boyfriend makes you one. It is your favourite.
“You are like pumpkin cheesecake,” Matt says. He leans on his elbow and you try not to look into his eyes. “And Jackie is carrots. You’re great, but not all the time. Jackie is good for me all the time. You know?”
This is the thing you learn about yourself in the first few minutes of being nineteen: you are much more of an adult than last year, because when Matt says this, you don’t reach your hand out to punch him in the face. Instead, you say, “I understand.” Then you roll away from him and close your eyes until you hear his tiny snores rolling through your ribs.
You are mature because you wait. You tip toe to the bathroom and lay your face against the cold tiles and that is where you cry.
You realize that you do not know what love means. However, it is here on your nineteenth birthday you realize what it isn’t. It isn’t having your heart broken on your own bed after giving someone a blowjob on your birthday. It isn’t any of this.
You wonder though why love feels like laying down and letting someone roll over you - why love feels like agreeing to lay down and die.”
— Kristen Fiore, “Wrong Ways To Say I Am Not In Love With You” Chapter Three (girlvswhale.com)
My happiness is all a lie, it’s like I live in this fantasy world, not realizing that I’m pretending to be happy.
I have pretended for so long that I actually believe I truly am happy, until I breakdown every night. If I’m so happy, how could I get so sad?
Then, the cycle starts all over the next day. I’m happy, or at least think I’m happy, then I get sad all over again.
It’s a daily routine, a never ending cycle.
I don’t think I can pretend much longer, it’s tiring masking and burying my true feelings.