Our women die lonely and weeping.
To tell the truth is to tear my tongue from its root and spill blood into a glass so you can drink it; your mouth tasting all I’d ever tasted in love before— before there were roses on the benchtops and kisses stolen between kisses given and a hand on my hand saying more in its touch than you ever could with your words. — I’d...
Every morning, I’m staring down nightmares.
I just want to be where you are.
I don’t know if you’re going anywhere I want to go or what secrets are buried in the skin of your wrists, but I hope you can find room for me in the backseat between the bags of baggage the other girls have left.
loveinyourarms replied to your post: First kiss. *throwws glass on floor* ANOTHER!!! *kisses the heck out of* YES ANOTHER. Well, it’s been a while and I’ve been struggling to write so SOMETHING had to happen uwu
I cannot go to the river bank where we first kissed without tasting you in my mouth. (Like blood; thick you stick to the roof of my mouth and I can’t rinse you out.)
Love, before I met you.
1) I was a blank canvas for their hands to paint endearments and childhood secrets on. The bruises came later, but bruises don’t talk and neither will I. 2) A slammed door, a raised fist and bloodied teeth and how did we end up here, babe? How did we fall out of love so heavily? 3) A knife, they’d twist it in my gut and hang my bleeding corpse out to wait for the next poor soul to...
Sometimes I wish I could leave the lights on.
When your hands are holding my sides so fiercely I think I might break, I wish I could see your face with more than just my fingertips.
Teeth in my skin, the junctions of my elbows and thighs have become your playground and I fall apart beneath you.
Living with depression has broken me.
You were too pernicious to love.
You are a sad song at the back of my mouth, gagging me with every word I try to say that isn’t praise of your name and Oh! God, don’t leave me this way. Tear my tongue from my cheek, from my spoilt mouth. Let me speak my own praises of people who aren’t you, people who could never be you, people with hearts that have not withered, hands that still know how to press love-me-tender...
On sadness, she wrote.
I’m sad all the time, and I do the dishes and wonder when I got to be so sad, and I do the laundry and I wonder where all the sadness comes from, and I clean the bathroom and I wonder how all the sadness fits inside of me, and I smoke too many cigarettes and wonder if the sadness will ever go away.
Anonymous asked: Tell me why you write what you write? Why is it your poetry is always the saddest thing I've ever read, but I love to read it? How do you write such terrible things to be so beautiful?
I don’t want to die waiting.
Our women live empty.
My mother and her mother and her mother’s mother have all spent their lives saying yes; their mouths splitting their hesitance on the edges of their husband’s teeth. They coughed up their spines for their marriage vows and their chests are empty, cavities where a bird might have been, but isn’t.
When I was young I spat daggers at the boys who jeered on street corners at the girls who walked by, summer dresses swaying, bare thighs. Now that I am old, my mouth is a fist-fight knife-fight waiting to happen. Cut-throat girl with a gun for a tongue and a war zone shell.
Young boy, you are winter-skin and bone, thin like naked trees before spring comes round to tea. The wind rattles through your veins and I grit my teeth and hold your hands to steady you. Young boy, you are winter, skin and bone.
Feet up on the dashboard.
We’re driving and I don’t know where. I know that once upon a time beauty and terror happened to me all at once and since that night I haven’t been able to tell the two apart, and I know that your left hand is more beautiful than your right, but your right knows how to touch me best. You said, “every mouth I’ve ever kissed was practice for you,” and I said,...
Honey, sometimes love means sticking your fingers down their throat just to keep them alive long enough to tell them they’re an idiot. And sometimes love means waking up in a hospital bed and wishing you’d turned left instead of right that day.
Validate my fear and love me.
A Step In the Right Direction - feature film. →
inlieuofeffu: Hey guys! So this is a film that Jared, Marnie’s boyfriend and a good friend is trying to raise money for. Their goal is $3000 by April 25th, and in the scheme of things if enough people donate, this isn’t a hard goal to reach. Any and all help will be appreciated! “A Step In The Right Direction is a film that attempts to show reactions and adjustment to life after a public...
Balanced; spread toes on emotion cabled thick. I tread my own mind carefully, wary of the horrors held captive here. The light flickers, wavers, shutters out and I’m left in the dark on this tightrope trap, two empty hands to face my nightmares a la mort.
A suicide saved.
I found her in the bathtub, once, and as I hauled her out by her shivering arms all I said was “you look beautiful in red.” As though a compliment could somehow lighten the mood.
Ode to Anna.
She was white muslin and salt water in the hollow of her throat, her collarbone wings too weak to take flight. I swallow absence and run.
wonkycharmer asked: If you were to find yourself stranded on a desert island and you could take only one word with you; what would it be?
A love letter to myself.
Small handed girl, you’ve written the truth of your scars wherever there’s space to write it and I love you. They painted over the rape you wrote about on the front door of your Uncle’s house and I love you. They took the floorboards of your bedroom out where you’d carved the shape of your father’s fist into their varnished surface and I love you. You shook the sand...
Twenty-three cigarettes at midnight in honour of the years you might have lived, but chose not to.
I feel horribly obliged to live.
Whisper-wisp, we loved in falling leaves and sunburnt skin, Autumn rain and the flooded river bank that broke your heart; we loved in increments and then lost it to the wind.
“Live,” they told me as they held my throat up to the blade, “you should want to live, darling.”
You spoke synonyms to ne.
“I want to live inside your chest,” you said, “I want to burn between your legs.”
The skeletons in my closet were people once, flesh and beating hearts (fists).
A letter I'll never send.
The letter I keep writing to my children: ‘My darlings, I have never told you that I once lost you to my own sadness, that your tiny flailing fists once made me feel as if the world was striking out at me through you. I used to feed you in the bath tub, wondering if perhaps I could let your weight drag us under. I still believe that it was you who kept me afloat. I keep writing this letter...
loveinyourarms replied to your post: Things I’ll tell you when you’re older. Anything else to add before I reblog it this time? XD No darling! You’re good to go, and thank you as always!
heartsofink replied to your post: Things I’ll tell you when you’re older. Que sera sera? Che sarà, sarà is the motto of a family in a movie, The Barefoot Contessa, a movie I’ve always loved. It’s neither Italian or Spanish, so it’s closer to being quasi-Italian I guess. Although Che sarà sarà is incorrect in modern standard Italian, it does appear in Christopher...
Things I'll tell you when you're older.
i) The monsters don’t fit under beds anymore and neither do we. ii) Che sarà, sarà You will learn one day as I did, what will be, will be. iii) You are not the property of anyone but yourself, don’t let them teach you otherwise. iv) There is never a wrong time to love someone, but sometimes there will be the wrong someone who will love you the wrong way. v) You will cry and...
“—evere trauma—” Hushed voices dressed in white twist somewhere far above my head and the bed that isn’t mine. “—blood loss, we aren’t abl—” My eyes are too heavy, my tongue too thick. I want to tell them that I’m sinking but not dying, not yet, “—about her family?” but the wind comes in through the window, cracked...
zaneanderson asked: my name is Zane, I am an artist and a lover of pomes. I have been asked by my friends to do a reading or two of your work. if that is ok can I get your name or a pin name so I can give the credit where it is dew. thank you for your work it has helped me not to be so shy of my talents.
openhearteyeswings asked: your poem, The deforestation of a wild thing, is one of my most favorite poems i have read
The deforestation of a wild thing.
You tear the curtains down and find that I am a funeral pyre in full swing. You learn that loneliness is nothing like emptiness, but a burning forest. Brightburnflames licking up my thighs and taking with them the kisses you lay there, and there and there. Will my deforestation strip my skin back to the taste of lovers old, their touches turned Midas-gold along the expanse of new pink skin? The...
“Those things’ll kill you, you know?” “I’m counting on it, sweetheart.”
The only thing my father ever taught me:
“Babygirl, ain’t anyone can save you.”
I’d chase winter around the globe if I could afford it.
You lo(i)ved inside my chest.
We made love (once, twice, and I stopped counting the bruises) in the middle of winter and pretended neither of us were casualties when we collided, a heart-on collision, (precision incision). I keep the room you rented from me empty, I don’t think about you anymore, but I don’t think about you anyless.
I’d kissed you seventeen times before they tore me away from the coffin. This could be tragically romantic but I’m lying; I wasn’t allowed through the chapel doors.
Kiss me, the world can wait.