Regina Cannot Explain It All


I'm Regina Small. I'm a writer and editor in NYC. I have a lot of opinions.


Interests include: sci-fi/fantasy, literature, summertime daydrinking, trying to be a better person, fancy manicures, philosophy, pictures for sad children, and the role of irony in the modern world. And fandom, of course.

I have another blog dedicated exclusively to science fiction/fantasy. Read it here.

Recent Tweets @reginasmall
My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.

A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.

Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
undress, unlearn.
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.

A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.

Caitlyn Siehl, “Singular (via alonesomes)

(via lifeinpoetry)

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Sylvia Plath, ”Elm” (via sad-plath)

(via lifeinpoetry)

I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.
Daniel Keyes, “Flowers for Algernon (via splitterherzen)

(via lifeinpoetry)

I think the average guy thinks they’re pro-woman, just because they think they’re a nice guy and someone has told them that they’re awesome. But the truth is far from it. Unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations.
Junot Diaz (via luciaferr)

(via msenjoli)

He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via observando)

(via the--safest--sounds)

Aaron Paul. I met him the other day, and we were geeking out about each other’s shows. I was like, ‘Oh my God, Jesse!’ and he was like, ‘Oh my God, Sansa!’ It was so weird and amazing. But maybe he was just like, ‘Oh my God, you’re here!’ and maybe he’s not a Sansa fan. Let’s just think it in our minds that he is, and make it so. If you believe, you can achieve — that’s my motto!
Sophie Turner answering “Who’s the most surprising Sansa fan you’ve met?” (via dignified-and-old)

(via thetopofthecity)

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence.
James Joyce, from Ulysses (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via nogreatillusion)

(via jopara)

I feel nothing
but pain for the past
trying to separate
like old clothes
crumbling in a chest
what does not last
from what I can keep
trying to understand
how I fell
so short of what I intended
to do with my life.
How life twists and turns
against us. How a childhood
is not really understood
until it is lived
a second time
in memory.
How wonderful
and how terrible
it seems now
because it is gone
and because it was mine.
Sarah Brown Weitzman, from “Looking Back” (via mitochondria)

(via lifeinpoetry)