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Do not fear dea…

Do not fear death, fear its nemesis: life… Or, rather, fear wasting it.
Life should be your true enemy. It is wrought with agony, suffering, a lack of fairness and justice, bickering, hate, loss, and misery. Death might relieve you of these things — but if you turn these negatives around, you’ll find: happiness, the joy of helping, charity, knowledge, understanding, love, gain, and possibility.

I always kind of scoffed at duality until I honestly embraced my solitude and began understanding things outside of the somewhat negative perspective I’d disguised and falsely titled ‘realistic’. I’m not an optimist, nor an opportunist, nor a pessimist. Maybe I have finally become a realist by living by example.

I’ve begun to take my own advice, which released me and freed me from restraints of perpetual, repeated mistakes that I was too stubborn to acknowledge as just that. I hated when people constantly fell back into the same bad habits, or kept stabbing the fork in the socket even if it kept shocking them, or those who’d cut off their nose despite their face.

I am growing more comfortable and while I still stress, overanalyze, experience loneliness, sadness, hopelessness… It is a lot less often. I’m more commonly washed with contentment or a positive indifference. I don’t know if I could call myself ‘sage’, but I’d like to become a genuinely easy going person. I’m getting there, definitely.





I haven’t got the courage to talk to you any other way than text right now. I know where I stand, or don’t stand, with you and I don’t want to cry or get emotional in front of anyone. I should have seen this coming. I should never have talked to your friends, even if all I wanted was advice on how to fix things and make you happy, and I didn’t go about it right. I shouldn’t have questioned your loyalty with my insecurity or jealousy. I should have kept my problems to myself more. But nothing can fix it.

I think of how you will have your new years kiss with someone else and I cry. I think of you letting me preview music you made and I cry. I think of how you used to always let me lay on your chest to sleep and I cry. I think of you happy, holding my hand, smiling, laughing at my silly banter. I ain’t ever experience those things like I did before. I never will feel your arm squeezes again. I won’t get to go to the Fox with you after sleeping over and laughing at the wall decor. I think of Ram and you laying your legs across me when it was cold. The way you called me baby girl. It is the worst feeling I have experienced. I never thought I would experience loss so profound without death involved, especially not the loss of you. I just never thought about it.

I haven’t ever been heartbroken… At least nothing anywhere near like this. I cry a lot, in secret mostly. I have been keeping as much of the pain possible to myself. I don’t know what to do. I feel like living with Katie is making you feel betrayed by her and I want you to rest assured she has not taken sides and I will be moving out soon — I can’t live there knowing there is a possibility I could ruin what you two have. I have nowhere else to go but I am looking. My mother and I are speaking and she tells me often how you are the best thing I have had. It makes it harder, but she’s right. I hope one day my mom will love me like many moms love their kids. I keep hoping you fall back in love with me. I keep hoping that I am doing everything right to keep making progress in life. I am always full of hope, but I sink into reality and accept it regardless.

I always thought when I moved back out of my moms for good and started getting my life straight, life would get so much better. Despite obsessively trying to be proactive and busy, I still feel so hurt from everything with my mom, losing you, the holidays, and other shit I don’t even want to talk about.

Truth is I didn’t want to let you know how much this was hurting me. But I feel compelled to tell you. To let you know that you’re the most important thing to happen to me, that I love you now and will love you always. No matter how much it hurts me in ways I never thought possible, I will. I hope your holidays were and are amazing. I am sorry if reading this has hurt you or angered you. I wouldn’t even be surprised if it drives you away and out of affection with me further. It’s just something I had to do.

I am not wallowing in self pity. I am using this to try to push forward like you do. But it still hurts and is an uncontrollable feeling. I am allowing myself to feel it, all of it, without question. I am not avoiding it. I am not suppressing it. I am tired of losing, but never tired of trying.

I just haven’t got much else to lose. It’s both invigorating and painful.

I don’t know what else to say or do. You don’t have to reply, indicate you got this or anything. I am not expecting anything to come of this letter except hope that it helps you know how incredible you are and maybe helps drain my heart of the aching. Maybe it will help me stop crying as much. Maybe I will be at a point where the mere thought of seeing you and not being your girl doesn’t make the lump in my throat swell. I really want you back. I can’t deny it.

I love you. I am sorry for all the stress I caused you. I never meant to cause you to feel anything but happiness, joy, dedication, loyalty, admiration, respect and most of all, love. You will always be the Lego Master of my dreams.

I hope you get everything you want. You deserve it all.

Sincerely, Cassandra

On the menu.

I fear I won’t heal from this. The love I had for him was immense and genuine. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t care. I never loved or wanted someone so much. I might never again.

I miss him. I wish I could hate him. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I just didn’t fucking care. Why do I care?

Because everything would be better. Everything. If he would trust me. And give me another try.

Instead, he avoids coping. He hides in hobbies. He ignores his feelings. He breaks my heart in such a way that its only obvious he hates me.

It hurts. I wish he knew. I would never hurt him.

It is what it is.


Heartbreak, I am your bitch.

Daughter, by Nicole Blackman

Daughter, by Nicole Blackman

One day I’ll give birth to a tiny baby girl
and when she’s born she’ll scream and I’ll make sure
she never stops.

I will kiss her before I lay her down
and will tell her a story so she knows
how it is and how it must be for her to survive.

I’ll tell her about the power of water
the seduction of paper
the promise of gasoline
and the hope of blood.

I’ll teach her to shave her eyebrows and
mark her skin.
I’ll teach her that her body is
her greatest work of art.

I’ll tell her to light things on fire
and keep them burning.
I’ll teach her that the fire will not consume her,
that she must take it and use it.

I’ll tell her to be tri-sexual, to try anything,
to sleep with, fight with, pray with anyone,
just as long as she feels something.

I’ll help her do her best work when it rains.
I’ll tell her to reinvent herself every 28 days.

I’ll teach her to develop all of her selves,
the courageous ones,
the smart ones,
the dreaming ones,
the fast ones.
I’ll teach her she has an army inside her
that can save her life.

I’ll tell her to say Fuck like other people say The
and when people are shocked
to ask them why they so fear a small quartet
of letters.

I’ll make sure she always carries a pen
so she can take down the evidence.
If she has no paper, I’ll teach her to
write everything down on her tongue,
write it on her thighs.

I’ll help her to see that she will not find God
or salvation in a dark brick building
built by dead men.

I’ll explain to her it’s better to regret the things
she has done than the things she hasn’t.

I’ll teach her to write her manifestos
on cocktail napkins.

I’ll say she should make men lick her enterprise.
I’ll teach her to talk hard.
I’ll tell her that her skin is the
most beautiful dress she will ever wear.

I’ll tell her that people must earn the right
to use her nickname,
that forced intimacy is an ugly thing.

I’ll make her understand she is worth more
with her clothes on.

I’ll tell her that when the words finally flow too fast
and she has no use for a pen
that she must quit her job
run out of the house in her bathrobe,
leaving the door open.
I’ll teach her to follow the words.

I’ll tell her to stand up
and head for the door
after she makes love.
When he asks her to
stay she’ll say
she’s got to

I’ll tell her that when she first bleeds
when she is a woman,
to go up to the roof at midnight,
reach her hands up to the sky and scream.

I’ll teach her to be whole, to be holy,
to be so much that she doesn’t even
need me anymore.

I’ll tell her to go quickly and never come back.
I will make her stronger than me.

I’ll say to her never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.

Never forget what they did to you
and never let them know you remember.