1. You will feel so alone you think you hear your bones screaming. The sky will look mint and the air will taste of mercury and purple salt. Here, you open the window and allow the cold to gnaw at your skin with it’s metal teeth. Allow it to ripple across your wrists like volcanic lava. Allow it to kiss your neck and tower over your eyelashes. Do not cry.
2. Make your walls bare. Take in the peeling paint. Take in the vast emptiness. Rip out every single page of your favorite novel and tape it to your walls. Breathe in the words. Exhale the characters, the plot, the black setting. Do not cry.
3. Fill the bathtub with water. Take a bath in the dark. Think about how the universe is expanding. You are made up of stardust. You have galaxies breathing inside your palms, the moon is swimming against your thighs. You are meteor showers and the Seven Sisters. Do not cry.
4. Wash your sheets with ivory detergent. Wash your hands with pomegranate soap. Put cucumbers on your eyes. Put lotion on your toes, elbows, collar bones. Do not cry.
5. Remember cities will burn and stomach acid will flood your liver and lungs. Remember people are making love, buying groceries, making omelets, committing murder, giving birth, taking exams, waiting for him, for her. Remember people are dying. You are not. Remember do not cry.
6. If there are needles stinging your chest and marmalade reminds you of red stained lips and hurricane eyes, write poetry. It is the only thing you can do. Paint yourself using the color of the sea. Do not limit yourself to blue. The ocean is not blue. It is brown and purple at sunrise. Green and opaque at dawn. Do not cry.
7. You are alone. There are gaps within us that can be filled with rubber cement. But we will always bleed. It is human nature. Let yourself bleed. The poison, the cockroaches, the mud, the oil. You are the only God you need. You are the only God you will ever need. And finally, baby, cry.
confessions from my alcoholic mother (via irynka)