I'm Alessia, I write.
"Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness.”
— Yousuf Karsh

i want a word for the almost-home.

that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar
that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing
that first glimpse of the skyline
that you never loved until you left it behind.

what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams?
is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to,
comfortably exhausted?

i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street,
for seeing your city on the horizon,
for flying homewards down your highway.

give me a word for the boundary
between the world you went to see
and the small one you call your own.

i want a word for the moment you know
you’re almost home.


written by there and back again, n.m.h. (via anoraborealis)

(via dylanadreams)

Anonymous said: your poems. your words. everything.

You are very kind. Thank you. 

Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry.
written by Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel 

(Source: madyhailee, via ef-florescent)

You are loving and grieving
over a foundation of flesh you’ve yet to meet.

It is through death that we become aware we exist;
how flimsy existence ties its promises.

You worried the potential of loss would be cradled in your arms,
but you found it vulnerably looped in your womb.

You’ve spent the past few weeks cursing the hens,
and the back pains that numbed your legs, the cramps that formed your guilt.

“I am sorry I failed to birth our merged reflections.”
You weep over a given that you could not give.

And he says, “It’s okay” and, “You are never to blame”
and, “We can try again when you’re ready.”

But will you ever be ready to hear the mockingbird of your body;
to ask your womb for the strength to carry what it couldn’t before?

You would never have imagined living in such a world
where death happens inside of you, but you’ve been living in it your entire life.

You share the world with the women who are unaware of the pregnancy and the loss,
the women who put scrapbooks together for her belly and her baby

and when she asks about the heartbeat she hides the scrapbook in a box
hoping to never come across it again.

Everything you have hoped for has been taken away by a pulse;
give yourself the time to grieve.

Your body is not meaningless; a gentle reminder will do —
The hands can carry, the feet can carry, the womb will carry too.


written by Alessia Di Cesare, The Womb Can Carry Too

I need a good playlist for while I write. Any suggestions?

A homemade sin in the heat of summer
I don’t want to see anyone. I lie in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and nothingness washing over me like a sluggish wave. Whatever is happening to me is my own fault. I have done something wrong, something so huge I can’t even see it, something that’s drowning me. I am inadequate and stupid, without worth. I might as well be dead.
written by Margaret Atwood (via pillowstars)

(via badtexter)