Don’t worry about your body. It isn’t as small as it once was, But honestly,...– For My Mother When She Doesn’t Feel Beautiful (via clementinevonradics)
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change...– Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell (via drinkyourjuice)
… the bittersweet in the words I cannot speak but stick in my mouth like...– Chard deNiord, from “The Double Truth” (via proustitute)
loqui: August →
loqui: August is always a never land A haze of timeless Of beach wash, bronzing And skies heavy sweltering Gingham picnics, meadows And endless pollination August is a smudge of oil pastel The stick of lipstick upon a wet cheek It’s the humming of bees Around honey beer and amber hair Sand…
My Musings: You Are A Silent Terrible Thing →
my-musings: You are a silent Terrible Thing. That slashes And softens And threatens to bring Destruction. You are a brilliant Wonderful Thing. That dances And blinds And calls me to sing Eruption. You are the wind. Pressed flush Against me …
Josiah Coen: I Am When You →
josiahcoen: I am New Orleans when you leave me I will just regroup and rebuild if I find myself in your path I will just let you through again and if you leave a second time I will let you go and if you never come this way I will still call you home I am a small town outside of Joplin when you come rolling…
loqui: September →
loqui: September is the first sign of blue The summer edge feathered Like a honeyed sundown falling From the darkness; September - a sky coming out in stars September is August smouldered Like the paper of a cigarette Flaking away from the flame September the black mark - The claw of the…
scottiehughes: at your end of the continent there are glittering lakes, yawning, waiting to be crossed soon we find bridges whose sole purposes are to be jumped off of you once said we’d go dancing in white tuxedos black taffeta gowns patent leather promises, you said tonight I blow smoke cross-legged, polish my shoes, and wish you well with the prospect of two more broken hearts “I always...
To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.– Jorge Luis Borges, Other Inquisitions, 1937-52, trans. Ruth L.C. Simms (via proustitute)
Forgive me for not writing for so long, I’ve been right beside you…– Dean Young, from “Sleep Cycle” (via proustitute)
Afterward, the compromise. Bodies resume their boundaries.– Maxine Kumin, from “After Love” (via proustitute)
This hope is sere. This hope is severe. What you ruin ruins you, too and so...– Liz Waldner, from “Semblance: Screens” (via proustitute)
If I chose to remain alone, what I longed for was solitude, not this kind of...– George Seferis, from “Mythistorema,” trans. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (via proustitute)
You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles...– Henry Rollins (via sylvanslang)
Brutal for you to parade in a body in the same room where I dream you.– Andrea Cohen, from “Brutal” (via proustitute)
10 Significant Life Events
dr-grumbles: iamateenagefeminist: My woman’s lit teacher is making us come up with the 10 most significant things that have happened in our life and present them to the class. I have come up with two lists; one that is actually my life and one that I am presenting to the class. Actual List Mom diagnosed with MS Kicked out of ballet Start swimming Start self-harming Meet Jacob Stop...
girlcrushes are so intense.
sundae-monday: they’re all kisses that taste like baby aspirin and green stomach bile and airplane crashes in your heart. they are never ever simple, like the way boys touch you and let you smoke their weed. they’re twisted up like pincurls and snuggled together like two-headed siamese twins licking tongues pink like candy and sweet as caramel apple original sin, and i want to break your bones...
They used to hang women like me, strange fruit on the poplar tree. They used...– ”Where The River Ends” by Otep (via kaykayvee)
Poetry 365: The poet sees the thing you cannot... →
Her language mimics yours, but it isn’t the same. Sounds are softer, longer, rhythmic. You carry the world around in pieces and snapshots, She sees it all at once in blurs, and that is enough. Those strange scenes you dream? Visions of unsolved mysteries, The dancing bliss, the envy that…
Poetry 365: The Ossuary, Sasha Geffen →
At her funeral, my grandmother grinned at me with paper faces. “These are my ashes for you to swallow,” she said. She’d tended a garden of candles and black flowers, of bone chandeliers. It’s beautiful, once you smell it. The veins in the ivy shiver when touched. I’d take whole…
Lies I’ve Told My 3 Year Old Recently by Raul Gutierrez Trees talk to...
Curiosity I sometimes wonder if instinct kicked in if your feet kicked, or...
On The Days I Am Not My Father
I don’t yell. I don’t hold inside the day’s supply of frustrations. My hands stay open all day. I don’t wake tired and sore, dazed from senseless, panicking dreams. On the days I am not my father I hold my son when he cries, let him touch my face without flinching, lie down with him until he falls asleep, realize that just because he has a sharp tongue, just...
The Funeral Game
That winter we came to terms with death. Every shoe-box was a coffin For anything small and dead And we wrapped them in calicoes, velvets… We grabbed hats, coats, umbrellas, From the hallway to dress as mourners, Someone struck an iron girder in the hay-shed To sound the funeral bell, John Joe beat the dead march on a saucepan. We held wakes, issued death certificates To old...
When you love someone, you don’t want to hurt them, even if they deserve to be...– Glass, Ellen Hopkins (via skin-n-bones)
And I want to play hide-and-seek and give you my clothes and tell you I like...– Sarah Kane Crave
Look at me. I’m standing on a deck in the middle of Oregon. There are friends...– Dorianne Laux
Modern life is often a mechanical oppression and liquor is the only mechanical...– Ernest Hemingway
one day, you fall for this boy and he touches you with his fingers and he burns...
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It...– Neil Gaiman