o
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(via indigomermaid)
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Do not write poems about him
The one who finds shovel and presses it to your collar bone
It is empty there and beautiful now because he has scooped the lonliness out
And you want to gift fruit for his work and cool his frame for as long as he wishes
But that is not what you are here for
You hold whistling hollows near that haunting trunk
Your neck branching out into life
Your mouth a nest of trouble though
It bee coves and honey drips
It is wet sweet and stinging nettle
And queen means things they couldn’t imagine
And all the while you buzz for him
And he sits reading at your base
Holding at your hand
Humming back your tune
But he is not yours
And maybe that would be fine
Save the fact that you know where he belongs
And that you are striped yellow and black for a reason
All hazard light
You may cause him to swell
But do not revel in being the cause for the effect
It is dangerous
And might close his throat
Never to sing sweet songs again
You know that your green limbs are forcing themselves to grow around him when your natural affinity is to grow towards the sun
And that he, he must return to the lilac tree
With the purple flowers in its tresses
And the familiar smell in its petals
For that tree has softened to mould a hollow shaped exactly for him in its bark
And has sturdied its branches for him and all that is theirs
So do not whistle poems for him through your leaves
Let him go
Floating off on the winds that brought him here
Be happy
Do not say,
‘For what?’, he left you
But whisper thank you to the sky all the while
For what he left you
(via indigomermaid)
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“I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain
outside my window will suffice for tonight.
I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now
and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses
in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry
because, because —
well,
you know exactly why.
And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand
how that would break my heart.
I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty.
I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus
and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra.
I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore;
Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental
with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside.
I’ve saved up enough money to disappear.
I know you never thought the day would come.
Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that
it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years
since we last have spoken.
Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs
against each other’s.
I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that
your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and
how you would laugh,
making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds
like I was falling in love
with language.”— Shinji Moon, “If I Left You A Voicemail This Would Be It” (via budddha)(via lovely-moonchild)
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what the men said to me before it happened
You have nothing. We will make you whole.
Put away your keys; they won’t protect you. This parking lot is dark for one reason and one reason only. Listen: our hands will light everything up.
Didn’t you know? Your body always comes with strings attached. We’re here to take advantage of them.
Give me a kiss. Come on, use some tongue. Get us warmed up.
I will pull you out of your skin like an anchor.
Why the heavy heart? You knew this was guaranteed. It’s all part of the insurance policy that a woman is born with.
Be still. Be quiet enough that we can hear the cicadas rubbing against one another, and we won’t have to cover your mouth.
You’re struggling. Listen, even our hearts weigh ten times as much as yours. If your heart is a station wagon, our hearts are Mack trucks. We will run you over and then come back again for a second helping.
I can almost taste you.
Afterwards, you’ll replay this moment over and over again in your head so often you’ll forget the difference between what we did to you and your favorite song set on repeat.
You look like someone who likes it rough.
What, you thought you’d find love? Honey, this is love. We just have a different way of showing it.
Tonight is the best night for doing this since there’s no moon, no stars. The darkness will cover everything up. It will erase us like ghosts.
The blood will only make you stronger. You already bleed every month anyway; more blood will change nothing.
Shh. Be still. Don’t pretend you didn’t know this would happen some day.
We don’t have any excuses.
We don’t need any.
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Oh Daddy. I got home late. And I started thinking about how hard You fucked me earlier today and about how hard You came in my cunt. I remembered how You made me Your whore.
And I started to get all wiggly and and and….well, I forgot to ask for homework earlier and….well… I was so wiggly…..that I used my freebie.
I came for You, Sir. Thinking of Your power over me. Remembering Your control. I came for You.
I hope it’s ok that I used my freebie. I’m Your girl.
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The Anatomy of Emotion
Boy, it’s your limbs I want
twisted around sodding curves and drifts like a car crash
we are a car crash, we are metal twisted around tree stump, we are disaster and broken and
beautiful
or collateral damage, easing smoke and bodily fluids disguised as petrol
strike your match against the cardboard of my stomach
there, watch us burn
Boy, it’s your eyes,
on me, on skin, on folds of paper that resemble me,
on bones, on books, on lipstick marks on coffee mugs
all the places we’ve had sex look like a home after a fire where no one survives the burn
it’s your lashes I want, boy, pursed against the corner of my mouth each one a wish, or a hope and
pray
‘dear god, let me have him’
Boy, it’s your hands
they make poetry out of me, out of all the things you touch, when you scrape your palm against your jaw I hear Bernini grumble
because he could not make art like you, flightless, breathing,
gentle,
art as beautiful as you, boy
it’s your hands, let me hold them, let us feel, it’s your fingers I want, capturing tides, and riffs, and the swell of the moon and the
swells of me
Boy, it’s your mouth
the words, the words, the honey and wildfire
I hear music when you speak, I hear violins rubbing themselves raw against the strings of your throat
you are Beethoven’s best piece, and that nocturne, the one we can only listen to at the depths of night because it sounds too much like breathing,
like hearts folding into each other, silence and silence and exhalations
sighs
it’s your lips, boy, when they kiss I am new, alive, pinwheel firework
it’s you, electric storm and shaking
it’s you, heart in your mouth, fist in the air
it’s you, beating and pulsing and alive,
it’s you, boy
boy, it’s you(via indigomermaid)
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“Not queer like gay. queer like, escaping definition. Queer like some sort of fluidity and limitlessness at once. Queer like a freedom too strange to be conquered. Queer like the fearlessness to imagine what love can look like… and pursue it.” —Brandon Wint (via revolutioniswhen)
also transcends past love…
(via transformfeminism)
and what fucking can look like, and what friendships look like, and what femininities and masculinities look like, and what the future looks like
(via femmetrash)
hallelujah good god almighty
(via gingerr-snaps)
(via indigomermaid)
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(via c-ollaredprincess)
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(via dirtymindofchaosghost)
