chartom:

kiersten van horne

 

The first time someone else’s tongue enters your mouth. 

The first time a child trusts you to carry them to the next room. 

The first time you drive safely from Westfield, Massachusetts to San Diego with someone you’re in love with. 

The first time you watch birth. 

The first lines of “Paradise Lost.” 

The first time you make a decisive three point shot in a game that really counts. 

The first time you get the dog to shit outside. 

The first time you can read “I love you” in a lover’s eyes. 

The first time you sleep in after fucking all night long. 

The first family reunion without homicidal fantasies. 

The first love letter. 

The first serious talk about love with your child.

The first time you contemplate suicide and change your mind. 

The first hangover. 

The first arrest. 

The first acquittal. 

The first epiphany. 

The first time you hear Lorca in Spanish. 

The first real friendship with a person of another race. 

The first gray hair. 

The first time you see Picasso’s “Guernica.” 

The first time you visit your birthplace. 

The first time you hear Lightning Hopkins. 

The first visible comet. 

The first time you feel attractive and someone calls you “angel.” 

The first experience with something remotely like a God. 

The first recovery after a serious illness. 

The first beer with your father. 

The first time therapy makes sense. 

The first birthday of your first born. 

The first time you can’t walk and your lover carries you to the next room. 

The first foul ball you catch in Fenway Park. 

The first time you stand alone and you’re scared to death and you don’t change your position. 

The first time you’re convinced of your mortality and you laugh. 

The first sunrise after the first death of a parent. 

The first time you forgive the unforgivable. 

The first time you see the earth from space. 

The first time it is truly obvious that it was better that you had lived, at this time, in this world. 

The first time you decide every moment of your life should be a work of art. 

The first time you die and you breathe again and you speak to the living. 

The first time you realize that it all just might have been okay

grandviziertothesultanofagrabah asked: is butter a carb?

Whatever, I’m getting cheese fries.

You, my love, are allowed to forget
About the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed
The weight of all the years before, like bad disco clothes,
Save them for a night of dancing, stoned with you lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
Every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock
Your youth and your most terrifying magic and dreamings for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
And sing me idiot love songs if you’ve lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
And then live again, more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the shit out of your television.
Choke its thoughts and corrupt its mind.
Kill! Kill! Kill! KILL The motherfucker before the song of zombiefied pain and panic and malaise and its narrow right-winged vision and its cheap commercial gang rape becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies how to dance full bodied, starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to suck in every single endeavor.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers’ blanket in the New York summertime with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise,

You, my love, are allowed to have time,

You, my love, are allowed to understand,

You, my love, are allowed to love,

Woman disobey,
When little men believe,

You, my love, are Rebellion.

- Jeff Buckley