There’s a woman in me who drinks poison
like water, thinks it’s what she needs
to stay alive. I wish she’d learn to savor
water’s plain taste, enjoy quench and calm.
But give her hurricane and drowned
peony blooms and she smiles, raises
her face to the rain and says, Hit me.
I can’t stand feeling wind on my skin
because it’s not your hands.
I don’t know how not to hand you
the match, how not to let you strike it
and light this house on fire, how not
to relish disappearing into ash,
my bones crumbled, an exploded
plum all that’s left of my heart.
The ground that is not true
ground but spindled grief.
After you’ve swum in the ocean, felt
the current, wave-crash, and depth
that goes deeper, deeper, and darker,
to choose a lake, with its smooth
and silt, no matter how fresh the water,
how relieved the skin to be rid of
the salt’s sting, is to ignore the hunger
of the man brave enough to love the sea.
Being called fat should be no more embarrassing that being called brunette. These are just physical descriptors. It’s not that “fat” is bad in and of itself, the problem is that people attach all kinds of stereotypes to the descriptor. If someone is to be embarrassed, it’s the person who wants to stereotype a group of people based on how they look.
Often when fat people get fat-shamed or fat-bullied we get embarrassed. Let’s put the embarrassment where it belongs. It’s not embarrassing to be fat, and it shouldn’t be embarrassing to be fat-shamed. It’s embarrassing to be a fat-bigot and it’s embarrassing to be a fat-shamer.Ragen Chastain (via fatoutloud)
if ur sad remember ur breathin out carbon dioxide for plants
when things went wrong
I didn’t turn
to drugs or teaching
I tried to sleep
but when I couldn’t sleep
I learned to write
I learned to write
what might be read
on nights like this
by one like me Leonard Cohen, from “The Only Poem” (via redvelvetteacake)
There will be kisses, and they will not always be good, they will not always be memorable. Your first, 8 years old, will taste like chocolate and soda pop. He will have a smudge of dirt on his nose, it will transfer to your cheek, your mother will wipe it off when you get home. You will not remember his name but it’s okay because you’ll remember that you played in the mud afterwards. He was your boyfriend for a single day. It was fine. You were more preoccupied with being the fastest runner.
Your second will look like a sticky summer afternoon, you are 14 years old and your entire body is a goose-bump, he does not know how to hold your face properly, you bump teeth and he says ‘sorry’ and you blush so hard that you feel faint. When he tries to kiss you again you both lean forward at the same time and leave forehead bruises on each other for an entire week. He mouths ‘sorry sorry’ every time he looks at you. Your hands shake when you write his name in your diary.
The third, fourth, fifth. You are 18 years old and they are drunken car crashes in the dark. Each ghosted breath against your mouth smells like beer and teenage desperation. They will put their hands on your body and you will try to wriggle your way into their skin. You wish one of them would ask you on a date. None of them do. In the morning they only know that you were beautiful and that your mouth tasted like ashes.
When you are 19 you will be kissed and you will not want it. There will be bruises on your jaw, and your upper arms. You will not be able to look at a man for months without shrinking inwards. He will not say sorry. He will not look at you after. Instead he’ll take his guilt home and feed it to himself. When his mother asks what is wrong, he won’t be able to meet her gaze.
It’s at 22 when you are kissed properly, when you are kissed into romance novels. There will be a man and he will cradle your jaw between his hands, he will cup your scalp and bend you backwards. You will cling desperately and you will eat at each others mouths like you were starving. He will only touch your face, but somehow your entire body is on fire. Even the air is flushing deeply. You will forget your name, he will forget his. The entire summer is pressing itself against the places where your bodies meet. It is tongue and teeth and lust. It is what your mouth was made for.
This is the kiss that you are looking for, do not accept any others. These are the ones you will remember when you are lying naked at night and the light wears you like a dress and the other side of the bed is empty. These are the kisses that touch you only on the lips and turn all of you into flames.Azra.T “A Lesson in Teeth” (via 5000letters)
Last night I thought I kissed the loneliness from out your belly button. I thought I did, but later you sat up, all bones and restless hands, and told me there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo. I never know what to say to these things. “It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.” “Please don’t go away again.” Sometimes you are gone for days at a time and it is all I can do not to call the police, file a missing person’s report, even though you are right there, still sleeping next to me in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders. Except in this case I am the intruder and you are already locked up so tight that no one could possibly jimmy their way in. Last night I thought I gave you a reason not to be so sad when I held your body like a high note and we both trembled from the effort.
Some people, though, are sad against all reason, all sensibility, all love. I know better now. I know what to say to the things you admit to me in the dark, all bones and restless hands. “It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.” “Please come back to me again.
Please come back to me again.