And I kept thinking
of a sound. The one where
I don’t wake up thunder,
and trembling, sweating bullets.
Rather, my thighs are wrapped
in blankets, wrapped in moon glow,
wrapped in lullabies of
my father’s singing. It’s like sunlight.
It’s like the glow of a creak
on summer when I ran barefoot
and the grass is melting
into dew, into dirt. I know a memory
is not a sound, nor it is music.
But there are days
when moments turn into a
symphony of polaroid and pauses;
far from nightmares, far from
stitched clowns and band aids,
this kind of sadness.
So I kept thinking of that sound,
where I don’t wake up crying or scared.
Where I don’t ask if I belong here.
Where I don’t ask if I belong here.
of a sound. The one where
I don’t wake up thunder,
and trembling, sweating bullets.
Rather, my thighs are wrapped
in blankets, wrapped in moon glow,
wrapped in lullabies of
my father’s singing. It’s like sunlight.
It’s like the glow of a creak
on summer when I ran barefoot
and the grass is melting
into dew, into dirt. I know a memory
is not a sound, nor it is music.
But there are days
when moments turn into a
symphony of polaroid and pauses;
far from nightmares, far from
stitched clowns and band aids,
this kind of sadness.
So I kept thinking of that sound,
where I don’t wake up crying or scared.
Where I don’t ask if I belong here.
Where I don’t ask if I belong here.
― Kharla M. Brillo | Polaroid (via pouvoires)
Apr 10 0:15 with 928 notes
