"January is smaller than she’s ever been. Just a small
golden light in my peripheral. My head is wrapped in
cotton, but then there’s the sun, telling me I can’t sit
another year out. My ghosts are dead so I’m going into
this clear-eyed and weightless. January comes with the
hope for sugar and syrup, no more of the watered down
spoonfuls I’ve gotten the past eight months. As the heat
settles in, I wait to see if this means I’ll bloom or curdle
this year. January brings my insides to the edge of my
skin, braces them to jump. It’s been so long since I’ve
known solid ground. January is just a blurry figment
right now, static on the television. A ringing in my
ears. The countdown starts and the sky lights up.
January pitches her voice over the noise: last year’s
ghosts are dead, that’s reason enough to celebrate." — JANUARY IS AN OPTIMIST, angelea l. (via middecember)
golden light in my peripheral. My head is wrapped in
cotton, but then there’s the sun, telling me I can’t sit
another year out. My ghosts are dead so I’m going into
this clear-eyed and weightless. January comes with the
hope for sugar and syrup, no more of the watered down
spoonfuls I’ve gotten the past eight months. As the heat
settles in, I wait to see if this means I’ll bloom or curdle
this year. January brings my insides to the edge of my
skin, braces them to jump. It’s been so long since I’ve
known solid ground. January is just a blurry figment
right now, static on the television. A ringing in my
ears. The countdown starts and the sky lights up.
January pitches her voice over the noise: last year’s
ghosts are dead, that’s reason enough to celebrate." — JANUARY IS AN OPTIMIST, angelea l. (via middecember)
my nails are trimmed, my teeth are brushed, my hair is combed for the new year
"Her wings are fastened onto
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telegrams but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between." — Anne Sexton, “Song for a Red Nightgown” (via mercurieux)
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telegrams but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between." — Anne Sexton, “Song for a Red Nightgown” (via mercurieux)
