fly underground

inklustt asked: Happy birthday (in advance) to one of the most inspiring writers I've ever had the privilege to encounter. x

oh my god, this is such a flattering message, thank you!! i wish i could say that i’m doing exciting pre-birthday things, but i’m literally just organizing my room and rewatching the early seasons of pretty little liars. i figure once i’m 22, i’ll start living a more ‘grown up’ life, mostly because i start working the day after!

I’m turning 22 in 2 days!

Only two days until my birthday and I’ve been thinking loads about what I’d like. My best friend is going to hate this list, because the one I gave her was organized into type of accessory and mostly featured ASOS links.

  • Buy my book, Until I Learned What It Meant. Seriously, this is probably a strange request, because it involves buying yourself something as opposed to getting something for me. But it would mean so much to me. Think of it as me completely forgiving your book-buying gluttony.
  •  "But Yena I already bought your book!" – you say. First of all, a deep heart-felt thanks to you! It means so much to me and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. You can review my book on the Where Are You Press Etsy page, you can rate it on Goodreads, or you can do both!
  • "But Yena I did already did that too!" – you say. Thank you! It means a lot to me, to know how people felt about this book. I’ve read all the reviews and have scrolled through all the ratings: it makes my heart swell.
  • "That’s really all you want?" – you ask. Yes, friends. I’m really very lucky. I couldn’t ask for more than this. 

fly-underground turned 5 today!

i don’t normally celebrate my tumblr birthday, probably because it’s six days before my actual birthday (september 3rd helloooo), but five years is a long time! longer than college, longer than high school. my tumblr is old enough to be a kindergartener. it’s weird. it’s kind of cool.
fun fact: i first got a tumblr to have a place to post my poetry. it was initially only a poetry blog. no personal posts, no gpoys, no reblogs, nothing. my dashboard wasn’t a very interesting place, probably because i was only following friends from my real life, probably because five years ago, tumblr wasn’t as cool~
fly-underground has become a part of my life in a way that i didn’t think was possible. certainly my book wouldn’t have gotten published if not for this platform, but beyond that, i wouldn’t have ‘met’ so many really interesting, kind people if not for tumblr. i’ve learned a lot on here. it’s been a good place for me. 

fly-underground turned 5 today!

i don’t normally celebrate my tumblr birthday, probably because it’s six days before my actual birthday (september 3rd helloooo), but five years is a long time! longer than college, longer than high school. my tumblr is old enough to be a kindergartener. it’s weird. it’s kind of cool.

fun fact: i first got a tumblr to have a place to post my poetry. it was initially only a poetry blog. no personal posts, no gpoys, no reblogs, nothing. my dashboard wasn’t a very interesting place, probably because i was only following friends from my real life, probably because five years ago, tumblr wasn’t as cool~

fly-underground has become a part of my life in a way that i didn’t think was possible. certainly my book wouldn’t have gotten published if not for this platform, but beyond that, i wouldn’t have ‘met’ so many really interesting, kind people if not for tumblr. i’ve learned a lot on here. it’s been a good place for me. 

Anonymous asked: Hi! I think your poems are awesome.. I was just wondering how do you pronounce your name? It seems like a beautiful mouthful.

hello! thank you for this really kind message! hahaha, it’s funny you ask about the pronunciation of my name, because many of the people i first meet online all struggle a bit. i know it’s not out of malice or anything, my name is probably exactly how you described it: a beautiful mouthful. 

yena is pronounced like henna or jenna but with a y: YEN-a. 
sharma like karma: SHAR-ma.
purmasir, the toughest name in the bunch, has an emphasis on the first syllable: PURR-maa-sir. (when i say “sir” for the last syllable, i really do mean like the english word “sir.”)

i hope this little pronunciation guide helps! i am trying more and more not to take mispronunciations too personally and also to correct people before it can become too awkward.

My sickness is there when I look in the mirror. It is not all that I am, but it is an inexorable part of me. I am finally beginning to accept that. Which is to say, I am learning to accept the world in all of its contradictions and live as best I can within them.

Clementine von Radics, “A Polite Way of Saying ‘Incurable’”

(via twloha)

You know how they say “Be the person you would have needed as a teenager?”

I just got published by To Write Love On Her Arms, an organization that does amazing work to present hope for people struggling with addiction, depression, self injury, and thoughts of suicide.Their recourses were so helpful to me, and to be able to contribute was an honor.

Huge, HUGE thanks to my editor Claire Biggs and to TWLOHA for reaching out to me.

(via clementinevonradics)

So much love and support and respect for Clementine! Read her whole piece here!

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.

—Gilda Radner (via a-thousand-words)

Don’t be someone that searches, finds, and then runs away.

—Paulo Coelho (via kari-shma)

You have to decide what your highest priorities are and have the courage—pleasantly, smilingly, nonapologetically, to say “no” to other things. And the way you do that is by having a bigger “yes” burning inside. The enemy of the “best” is often the “good.

—Stephen R. Covey (via quotebookshelf)

You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch. Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy.

You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.

If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.

Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.

Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.

—Julien Smith, The Flinch (via larmoyante)

five hundred and ninety two: Nightmare Girl

When we broke up, I kept the vase you bought me.
Every night for a year I imagined the glorious wreckage,
inched my hand towards its delicate center,
held it sometimes like a newborn baby,
sometimes like a piece of twenty dollar trash. 

So much love for art that is not art,
so much contempt for love that is not love. 

I think of the first bouquet that died there,
how I snipped each stem in the kitchen sink.
The flowers with thorns. Our easy fingertips.

You called me your nightmare girl. I laughed
when you kissed me, fell asleep with our naked legs
fitted together. 

Baby, were you ever really scared of me
or was it something else? My even stare, 
the night you cried in my bed, my trembling hands resting.
We didn’t even have sex. There was too much moonlight
and anyway, you were upset. I zipped up your jacket, told you
to get away. In the morning, I watched the sun rise by myself.

I used to think I could never hurt you. 
Even your unsteady breathing, your bad dreams,
your hands on my side. 
                                   Nightmare girl, you’d say, 
maybe I’m the only one who can really see you
Nightmare girl, if I love you, maybe this is why. 

Baby, don’t you see me anymore? Baby, you changed.
Hush, this isn’t a dream. Baby. I am going to hurt you
the way you hurt me.