Ana Beatriz

“Listen, in a few hours
our little world will
turn herself right-side-up-again,
and you will forget about
all the ways this lonely night
sang you watered-down blues and
your hands will start to make sense again.

You think you've seen every ugly corner
of this whole rotten world, but listen:
There is an infinite number
of things we don't know and,
statistically speaking,
at least half of them
are probably
very, very, beautiful.”
― Ashe Vernon, Wrong Side of a Fistfight

“Even writing this email I'm feeling a little loose and dissociative. Rilke has a poem that ends: 'Who is now alone, will long remain to,/will wake, read, write long letters/and wander restlessly, as the leaves are drifting'. A better description of my state I couldn't invent, except it's April and the leaves aren't drifting.”
― Sally Rooney, Beautiful World, Where Are You

“When he says he doesn’t love you anymore, roll your shoulders back and look him in the eye even when it feels like your ribs are breaking inward; like spider legs.

When he digs up old aches that he swore he forgave you for, smile and ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.

Ignore the way the words feel like sandpaper running all the way up your throat to your mouth.

When he blames you for mistakes that wear his face, do not scream.

Do not cry.

Tell him that there are boys who would be proud to say they’d love you.

Tell him that in two years you won’t even remember his name and don’t let him see the way you can taste your own lie.

When he leaves, ignore the howling in your blood and do not get up after him. Not even to lock the door.

Do not, do not, DO NOT. Smell his shirts when you box them up to give them back. Not one.

Swear off dating when you realize you’re chasing ghosts that wear his smile.

It’s okay to cry over him. It’s even okay to forgive him. But do not go back to him if he did not know how to love you the first time. He won’t know how to do it the next.”
― Ashe Vernon

“It is also then that I wish I believed in some sort of life after life, that in another universe, maybe on a small red planet where we have not legs but tails, where we paddle through the atmosphere like seals, where the air itself is sustenance, composed of trillions of molecules of protein and sugar and all one has to do is open one's mouth and inhale in order to remain alive and healthy, maybe you two are there together, floating through the climate. Or maybe he is closer still: maybe he is that gray cat that has begun to sit outside our neighbor's house, purring when I reach out my hand to it; maybe he is that new puppy I see tugging at the end of my other neighbor's leash; maybe he is that toddler I saw running through the square a few months ago, shrieking with joy, his parents huffing after him; maybe he is that flower that suddenly bloomed on the rhododendron bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. It isn't only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing. And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life