bone

by Yrsa Daley-Ward

Loving someone who hates themselves is a special kind of violence. A fight inside the bones. A war within the blood.

the butterfly, remember, used to crawl on its belly and tiny legs through the dirt.

Remember on the right night and under the right light any idea can seem like a good one and love love is mostly ill advised but always brave.

every time you leave the room I worry and think that perhaps I have imagined you and maybe you have imagined me.

She sits awake at night and dreams with open eyes so you are not afraid to tell her every time you want to run.

it can all get too bloody silent, which leaves room for dangerous things, like thinking.

Know that there is a time coming in your life when dirt settles and the patterns form a picture.

I love the word love, I do but only far from home.

some of the best loves have been because you knew her past before she told you

Know that she scares you and you’re far too used to life as a lone wolf crying at the new moon and marvelling at its orientation in every single new country. Let her know the relief of leaving things behind. Tell her it’s a pain you’ve grown with. Tell her you’ll come back. Visit. Really mean it. Tell her she is better with someone else.

Self-expression is a tricky thing. Just as you start to feel comfortable with yourself after years of not, you then have to justify yourself to other people.

I cannot find the God you serve and I have been known to stay out all night searching.

You will come away bruised. You will come away bruised but this will give you poetry.

Seize that loveliness. It has always been yours.