I blame it on the mother, Caroline Munn (2011)
The geography of a well never changes:
The familiar dimming of light as we fall,
the same soft insulation of moss—
a dense ecosystem of darkness.
there is a certain comfort in the authenticity of reading something decidedly unpoetic. i’m tired of emotional manipulation. i want to read instruction manuals and the warning pamphlets that come with medications.
sharpening my body into weapon
when i was a toddler my parents put me in a flower pot in the backyard for an hour because i kept crawling around and now im a lil flower girl forever :`)
this reminds me of when i was very young and my grandmaman would call me “goldoon”, which means little flower vase in farsi, and one time i told her i didn’t want to be a “goldoon” any more because “goldoons” break and she said i could be the flower instead
(via 90210c)
