"Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street."
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell (via thenocturnals)
Leaving is not enough. Stay gone. I’ve wondered about that recently; if I needed to change the locks on the house he’s never visited, and Frida is right, I do. I’m not a door closer or a stay goner, but sometimes enough is way more than enough and once my vision cleared I couldn’t unsee what I’d seen. Stay gone. My heart is trained like a dog. A vizsla who can run like the wind but is so loyal she’s nicknamed velcro. I am a lucky lucky girl but I don’t have an apartment. Well sort of I do, I just rented one for the month. In Cordoba. Argentina. That doesn’t even seem real. I know it’s going to go by fast. Too fast. But honestly, as excited as I am to be here in this moment, there’s a part of me that’s glad; a part of my velcro heart that is tired of running and just wants an apartment just-my-size with a bathtub full of tea. Or ooblek so we can run on top of it. But maybe at someone else’s house because that looks awful to clean up. I do have a heart at least the size of Arizona though, and I do have crooked toes. Someone told my college boyfriend once that he had the perfect girlfriend, except for that one crooked toe. That’s maybe the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me behind my back. Then again, I don’t really know what people say about me behind my back. I used to want to know, the curiosity of wanting to hear what I never heard burned beneath the surface of the area where my neck meets my chest. But I think I’ve finally shed that part of me that feels like the left-out-little-sister listening from behind the door. I’ve found that people who have something to say will say it loud enough to be heard, and people who only whisper aren’t worth listening to. I’ve taken lovers for granted. Even when it’s something I try very hard not to do. I try not to take anyone for granted, and sometimes I need to remember that I’m anyone too. I hope I don’t take Argentina for granted. I don’t think I will. I began falling in love with this city before the wheels even hit the runway. The thing about lovers who look at you like you are magic is that you’ve got to trust that they know what they are seeing, and you’ve got to hope that you notice if and when they do. It’s a wonderful feeling if you meet someone’s gaze and you think maybe you could both get lost in there, and you linger, just a moment, just enough to notice, but then look away or close your eyes, because magic is like the sun and it can burn if you stare straight into it for too long, too soon, without taking the proper precautions. It’s a very sad thing though, when you feel someone searching your eyes for something you know just isn’t there. I like the idea of consuming a bottle and altars and cranberries and knives; it’s just the right amount of crazy. I’m not stupid. My heart is like a four-poster bed and a canvas and even the street dogs are picking up on the pungent scent of love leaking through the cracks in my chest.