1. A girl can lose feelings for you over night.
2. A kiss can be just that, a kiss. Completely meaningless.
3. Love can be one sided but I still wonder if that is love at all
4. Never beg for someone to stay or to love you. You shouldn’t have to beg for someone to be a part of your life or to love you. You deserve better than that.
5. Stop breaking your ribs to make space for those who do not belong there.
6. Learning to breathe again is harder than the doctors said it would be.
7. I don’t know what hurts more at night; being alone or being in love.
8. Laying with someone in bed at night is temporary. It won’t get rid of the lonely. You will still wake up and leave in the morning with a heavy heart and no hand to hold.
9. Sometimes the sky rains gasoline instead of water and you have to be strong enough and ignore the urge to set yourself on fire.
10. I will be okay someday. Bad things happen for no reason sometimes and things end but that shouldn’t mean you should come to an end too. The ocean will always have waves; I just have to learn to swim through them for a bit longer.
11. The stretch marks I left on my mother from birth will not be another suicide letter I never finished.
A Woman’s Work is Never Done
A series of photographic works titled ‘A Woman’s Work is Never Done’ Using my own hand as a base material, I considered it a canvas upon which I stitched into the top layer of skin using thread to create the appearance of an incredibly work worn hand. By using the technique of embroidery, which is traditionally employed to represent femininity and applying it to the expression of its opposite, I hope to challenge the pre-conceived notion that ‘women’s work’ is light and easy. Aiming to represent the effects of hard work arising from employment in low paid ‘ancillary’ jobs, such as cleaning, caring and catering, all traditionally considered to be ‘women’s work’.
The technique, I recall first applying to my hand under a table during a home economics class in school. I was totally amazed to find that I could pass a needle under the top layers of skin without any pain, only a mild discomfort. As with many childhood whims it passed and I hadn’t thought any more about it until quite recently when I decided to apply the process to my hand to make it appear calloused and work worn like that of a manual labourer. Some viewers consider the piece to be a feminist protest, for me it’s about human value. After all, there are many men employed in caring, catering, cleaning etc… all jobs traditionally considered to be ‘women’s work’. Such work is invisible in the larger society, with ‘A woman’s work’ I aim to represent it. (artist statement)
believe that my kindness makes me
anything but insurmountable.
I did not unzip my chest to every kind of hurt,
and stagger back, wounded and alive,
just to hear you call me weak for trying.
I opened my door to Heartache—
I gave her the fucking key.
My softness for wayward strangers
has made me nothing less
than a halfway house for aching soles.
So when you open your mouth
and call me ‘baby’
understand that I am not your next victim
in a laundry list of broken girls.
You think I don’t know you? People like you?
People with mouths for hands.
I’ve got skin like topsoil
and your teeth could never take root.
So when you go looking to make a plaything
of a sunburst,
you better look for someone with less fire
Because softness or no,
I will eat you alive
before I let you make a meal of me.
"Sometimes good people make bad decisions."
But she was wrong. There is no good and there is no bad.
This is why I
don’t can’t hate you.
Staring into her eyes, I remembered what it felt like that night better than I had remembered it the day after it happened.
I saw again those unkind notes on the walls - things like “get me out of here,” and “CUNT” scratched out in long, shaky, letters - and I felt again the stitching of the stiff khaki fashion I slept in and the coldness of those half-assed crocs I had on my feet.
I remembered it all too well.
So I remained motionless, locked in in that blue surveillance of truth. I let it fuck me up.
Blue. Her eyes were blue, deep like sundown on a cloudless evening. Not a spec of light was to be found - no, they were dark, and they were fierce, and they were coming for me.
But they were not relentless, and as she stared at me, I felt truth and untruth clawing at my insides, ready to be released, to be told, to be heard.
I said nothing.