your favorite punching bag

@whydohumans

Channel's geo and language: Ethiopia, English

Category: Blogs

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Channel's geo and language

Ethiopia, English

your favorite punching bag

14 Dec, 18:04

what i’ve noticed is that my need to write peaks when i’m going through something painful, but mostly when i’m pining for something, someone. why do i find my most potent inspiration in grief and in the void that comes from what’s missing?

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your favorite punching bag

14 Dec, 18:04

i want to write. i want things to make sense again. i’ve been thinking about the role writing used to play in my life, back when i used to write voraciously, back when it was all i ever did and the only thing i knew how to do. the only thing i had. the role it played was this: the act of writing, of contextualizing my thoughts and feelings and experiences, made things fall into place. made them neater, delineated them. without tangible proof of my thoughts, they float and disappear; i cannot name my feelings, cannot form a coherent string of thoughts that is meaningful in any way. i am less me when i don’t write. my inner life a dull gray.

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your favorite punching bag

9 Oct, 22:18

i must be somewhere inside of you. even if your brain has forgotten, perhaps your teeth remember. or your fingers. i hardly remember your voice but the pain of you floats in some remote current of my blood. i carry you in my depths, trapped in the sludge like one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.

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your favorite punching bag

9 Oct, 21:59

i cant remember what you sound like but i could map out your beauty marks with my eyes closed.

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your favorite punching bag

9 Oct, 14:28

disappear into my gallery ♡

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your favorite punching bag

8 Oct, 18:09

maybe i don't always say i love you, but i still keep the cinema ticket from that one date as a bookmark. i pick with the tip of my finger your fallen eyelash and ask you to make a wish. i remember how many teaspoons of sugar you put in your tea. i've learnt your favourite recipe by heart so i could make you something you love. i read you out loud passages of books that remind me of you. in art galleries, i find details of your face in every painting. i send you memes, and i hardly have to pretend to hear your laugh even through text. i see something and i immediately think that you'd enjoy it. that's how i say i love you.

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your favorite punching bag

24 Sep, 17:10

also been constantly thinking about the phrase "i know a love like mine exists because i exist" recently in what was meant to be a healing way but now has me curled up fetal position in the corner of my room hoping i'll come out the other end of this okay

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your favorite punching bag

24 Sep, 16:49

self-love feels like a stranger who knows my first name, swears we’ve met before. i stumble through an apology and explain that my heart isn’t what it used to be, we are so familiar with people coming and going these days. we go about this the best we can. she pats the seat beside her and braids my hair the way i’d imagine my mother would, twists each strand like she’s looming a tapestry out of my split ends. ‘this doesn’t have to be so hard,’ she explains, be gentle with yourself. even if you think you are undeserving, give the war a rest.

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your favorite punching bag

22 Sep, 10:43

hold me as i cry but please don’t acknowledge the tears. presence is enough. sometimes there’s no need for words, no need to talk. the body is exhausted, so please can we just lie here. watch the clouds go by and the day eventually turn to night. see the sun set and the moon rise and speak nothing of the pain that befalls us.

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your favorite punching bag

16 Sep, 17:25

the urge to vanish — followed by the decision to stay. to anchor myself in the space where it hurts and decide that there is more. there is more. here. for me.

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your favorite punching bag

16 Sep, 17:19

there is a world that seems to race past me. its surface, so quick, so slippery, that i cant get my grip on it. for so long, i tried to be whatever size or shape of a thing that would stick. i made myself small so i could sneak into crevices, big so i could swell in them and never be dislodged. quiet so the ones who minded, wouldnt notice. loud so the ones who noticed, wouldn't mind. i didn't do it for the company. i didn't do it to be liked. i did it to feel like the things that brought other people together, weren't the things that set me apart. i wanted to believe that there was a place for me in that space where people seemed happy together.

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your favorite punching bag

29 Aug, 11:52

i went to a children's park today. nothing has made me feel sadder in quite a while now. it's like i can sense the loss, more like, the lack, of a childhood in my own life as i watched the children. i was nothing like them. they're loud. they laugh. they have mothers who wipe their tears and patient fathers who teach them how to ride a bike. i had none of that. i was quiet as a tree, blending into the background like dirt. no one waited on me. i was barely ever picked up. i never learned how to ride a bicycle. where's my compensation for any of that? how do i get my childhood back? how do i heal from any of what happened which wasn't even my fault? how do i tolerate the person i have become?

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your favorite punching bag

19 Aug, 15:16

i think to be loved is to be a pomegranate. it’s to be held as your tough ridges get scored and gently taken apart. to bare your intricate crimson soul, one piece at a time. to stain the delicate fingers of your carver with your blood. to fall apart at the gentle brush of their thumb. to be unmade. to be consumed. to be one with the person who tediously pulled you apart and stain their lips pink.

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your favorite punching bag

17 Aug, 16:50

https://t.me/lettingogh

(inspired by https://t.me/yearnicology )

a movie a day

learning commitment + wallpaper worthy pictures

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your favorite punching bag

17 Aug, 13:21

there is dark, and there is light, while i struggle to allow myself to be swallowed by the latter, i feel a compulsion, a religious devotion to the former that denies me my humanity and exposes me for the filth that i am. i try to be good, and all i feel is bile rising in my throat and tickling my teeth, scalding them sharp; and a rage that rolls as if it were a tide, woven into my being, a natural fluctuation of feeling. i know sadness, i know guilt, but rage, that is the emotion that licks my heart the hardest.

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your favorite punching bag

15 Aug, 19:08

he slips those fingers into the corners of my mouth and fix my lips into a smile. blink, blink. is it strange that staring into a mirror floods me with the urge to smash my face repeatedly into it? do you think broken glass could feel like an aggressive kiss? blink, blink. i hear the familiar symphony of sounds as i drift out of a conversation and into the other senses which are hungry for attention. it smells like wet dirt, it smells like gasoline. there are moments when i am with other people, talking and engaging, when i suddenly see myself, outside myself: i am at the end of diving board, and i twist around on my tiptoes and cross my arms over my chest, before falling backward into the unknown waters beneath me. i’m here, but i’m not here, y’know? i’m there, but i’m not really there, y’know?

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your favorite punching bag

15 Aug, 19:04

awake in the belly of the night by that nervous scratch of mania that is endlessly rubbing the base of your skull when you’re in the thick of it. a product of the petite demons which congregate along the shoreline of your nerves and nip at your cells. sensations burst and bloom inside as if they were desperate weeds pushing through concrete. i take a deep swallow of stale air and try to fall back asleep; but the body is an animal outside of my own control, and the mind is a pack of wild beasts, hell bent on aggravating every thread of flesh in sight. when i close my eyes, i let my fingers belong to someone else, and collapse entirely into that fantasy. i want it to swallow me whole, i want you to swallow me whole. instead, i rub my legs in an agitated rhythm and try to rock my corporal structure into sleep like a warm bath. let me sink as i open my mouth and let the water flood my throat, lungs, stomach, and veins. i’m at home when i drown.

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your favorite punching bag

12 Aug, 12:49

as the days, months go by and we start speaking less and none at all i will only remember your gaze and your love. i can't remember what you were wrong about or what was i. that's just how nostalgia works.

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