The question is not
Will you like her?
The question is
For how long?
It is always upwards and forwards with her
Until you realize
Those bumps in the road
Are the curse
She carries with her always
No longer wish to tread upon
You are too much like a flower
Luring me in with your beauty
Keeping me with your sweetness
That I may dote on you
Only to leave when it gets cold
So many things
I’d like to do for you and perhaps someday
I’ll have the chance to
But by then in my mind there will be a different flurry of ideas
Each one melting just as fast as it falls
With the hope that I may catch one
Long enough to turn it into something beautiful
Though I can not catch every one
They cover the ground in their descent
In heaps of happiness and a desire for good
Seeping deep into the rest of me
Investing and converging everything it touches
Into memories, thoughts, and bridges
So that even at my worst
Even on the worst day
A part of you is here
Reminding me that
Every storm sometime ends and
The sun always rises
And I won’t worry
When the last of you has reached me
It’s only a matter of time
Before you turn up in my thoughts
Inspiring devotion in me
Until it creates a flurry
In my mind
I remember seeing this as a little girl and thinking that she was right, that her words made logical sense. It made me look at my mom differently, because although she had a lot to do with me being around, she was not my property. She was not mine and I was not hers, and that hurt. The love between us however, was that much more beautiful. To realize she cared for me and I for her, out of choice, not responsibility.
(Source: fassyy, via smartgirlsattheparty)
I tell you I look cute today
But I never take a picture
It would just be a blouse or a dress
Not how I feel in them
Because it would never look as good in photo
As it would, wrapped in your arms
You could let me press my lips to yours
And I could let you see between kisses
I wonder if you’d still care what I was wearing
Tomorrow I and I’ll
Today I caught myself lifting my eyebrows and crinkling my forehead, my face a mirror of my emotions not of my thoughts. Just like you. And I’m scared. Because I can’t pick up the way you walk or the grace you exude when you sit down. I can’t learn to light my face up like yours when you laugh or to look beautiful when I wake up. But I can mimic each of your grimaces and the tone of your voice when you’re annoyed. I can copy your sigh of defeat and replicate the way you get angry when you drive, to a tee. I do these things so perfectly that your laughter fills the house when you see my impression. So I wonder how long till they become my own? Till my impressions become the lessons I’ve learnt from you, the things you pass down to me, that I remember you by? Till I wake up and in horror realize that I’ve become my mother. Not because she was patient or funny, but because she overreacted and because she would lift her eyebrows, scrunching her forehead and against everything her body was saying insist that she wasn’t feeling or thinking anything. How long Till my child learns these things about me and realizes with distaste what ugly habits they are and hopes to never grow up to be like me.
I am afraid because I do not want to be that person. I want to be an example of kindness and joy. I want to show the people around me how to be strong and how to listen.
And so everyday I will try. I will fight my urge to make a face or lash out, I will do my best not to judge people and to treat everyone fairly. And though I can list and explain each of the things I need to stray away from and the thought of ever doing them fills me with sadness and disappointment, I am afraid.
I am afraid because I wonder how long ago it was that my mother wanted to be a different person too.
I didn’t understand that reference at first so I looked it up and apparently there were fifty-seven academics who theorized that Shakespeare was gay/bisexual.
Also, sonnet 57 is supposed to be about a guy that Shakespeare was in love with.
The Doctor remarks at one point in this episode that a skull looks like that of a Sycorax. Shakespeare claims he’s using that word, as he likes it. There is a Shakespeare character called Sycorax. #researchpayskids
I always love it when this shows up on my dash.
And this is one of the many reasons why I love Russel T. Davies and why I miss this era of the show so very much.