I need to be hugged so tight my ribs break

If I start to grow up, Mom won’t love me as much. She often weeps and holds me really tight and says she just wants me to stay small and young. It breaks my heart when she does this. I wish I could stop time. I wish I could stay a child. I feel guilty that I can’t. I feel guilty with every inch I grow. I feel guilty whenever we see one of my aunts or uncles and they comment on how much I’m “growing up.” I can see Mom’s eyebrow twitch whenever they say that. I can see how much it pains her.
I’m determined to not grow up. I’ll do anything to stop it from happening.

I’m small. I know I’m small. But I worry that my body is fighting the smallness. That it’s trying to develop. To grow. I feel like I’m barely hanging on to my childlike body and the innocence that comes with it. I’m terrified of being looked at like a sexual being. It’s disgusting. I’m not that. I’m this. I’m a child.

I hate them. I wish I was flat-chested and curve-less. I wish there was nothing sexual or suggestive about my body.

"Art during the Middle Ages was communal, unindividual; it came out of a group consciousness. It was without the driving painful individuality of the art of the bourgeois era. And one day we will leave behind the driving egotism of individual art. We will return to an art which will express not man's self-divisions and separateness from his fellows but his responsibility for his fellows and his brotherhood. Art from the West becomes more and more a shriek of torment recording pain. Pain is becoming our deepest reality . . .' " I have been saying
something like this.

To put the short novel Free Women as a summary and condensation of all that mass of material, was to say something about the conventional novel, another way of describing the dissatisfaction of a writer when something is finished: 'How little I have managed to say of the truth, how little I have caught of all that complexity; how can this small neat thing be true when what I experienced was so rough and apparently formless and unshaped?' But my major aim was to shape a book which would make its own comment, a wordless statement: to talk through the way it was shaped.
As I have said, this was not noticed.

let me put my lips to something

so I showed my teeth
No more than flesh and bone
Doin' so much just to watch someone bleed
But I love the very blood of you
It keeps its heat in spite of you
Oh, the heart that beats
To keep you here with me always

https://t.me/stuffandstuffandstuff

“Her eyes wanted nothing to get away / Her looks nailed down his hands, his wrists, his elbows”

“Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou?
Isaiah 45:9”

“Dance, Ballerina, dance, and do your pirouette
In rhythm with your aching heart,
Dance, Ballerina, dance, you mustn’t once forget
A dancer has to dance the part,
Once you said his love must wait its turn,
You wanted fame instead, I guess that’s your concern,
We live and learn . . . and love is gone, Ballerina, gone . . .”

How young I was. How unimaginative—and how confidently presuming.

In her parted lips, I glimpsed something that—in my own unpracticed, sloppy awe—struck me as holy. For a moment, I saw a window and not my wife. When I walked to her, it was like peering straight into something primordial and desperate, where the inscrutable space between stars had once birthed myths and gods, built palaces of story and scripture in which human doubts found a place to rest their weary brows.

“If you are a figment of my imagination, some wild dream, I hope I never wake,” I said.