bryonie-wise

These books of poetry will remind you that you’re not alone, that you’re on the right track, and that this too shall pass.

This screen in front of us makes an easy scapegoat for us to avoid the responsibility of showing up for each other. And who are we, really, when no one is looking?

The origin of self-hatred starts with the map of stretch marks etched down the backs of my legs, carved like lace down my thighs, hugging my waist and tattooed deeply into my breasts.

We want to know that we aren’t alone here, in this busy life, with all of her wonderous-and-confusing distractions. We want to know that someone else feels something we feel, or thinks something we think—we want to know that our shame, pain or (insert your secret here) doesn’t make us hideous or undeserving of love.