Áve María, grátia pléna-
One. womb to our mother’s shaking hands.
my birthright was to love you,
she says this family is sugar cane suckers, a generation
of plantation house birthing suites passed down
like wedding rings, brass and sour tasting
marriage to marriage, home is only where
i can hold you and you feel safe
Two. womb to our mother is weeping again.
does she know we can see her this time?
it’s not so bad, it’s not so much worse, see,
see this one says goodnight and leaves,
see this one doesn’t scream
see? why is she still crying?
Three. womb to our mother, our father.
the ideal family
he says ‘age is just a number’
and i know the years in which
my body has grown out is
shorter than the number of years between us
but he looks at me and sees something
more than what i am right now, he
holds my hand and calls me ‘doll’ and
i think if i can pretend to be older, he can
pretend his hands have not touched women
twice my age
i say
‘this is my choice’
even though my mom still
has to sign her name next to mine when
i ask for birth control and i feel
like an adult because i say
‘yes’ and i mean it and
he doesn’t question the intent behind it or
how i was just learning what sex
dear you,
there was that time at the beach. that's when i knew that whatever decisions i made, i would get back to that feeling. it was the throat-closed, closed fist, 'i would count every damn piece of sand if you asked me to' desperation that i hadn't felt since the last person who fucked me over as well as you did. i was the addict and you were the- 'we'll be fine. together, right?'. right. you knew that next morning what i meant when i said together and that scared you, didn't it? i wasn't saying things in an abstract sense that all your other friends liked, i was babbling 'i love you' and trying not to puke and fuck you for saying it ba
I.
you and i are a repeated sadness
a noose hung on the back of a door
asking to be let in, let go
II.
you tell me i ruin things when you get drunk enough
and i think of old temples
all the prayers that had slipped from people's lips there
wonder if they recognized that even sacred spaces crumble eventually
III.
you have eyes like icarus and a heart like zeus and your fingertips burn
but hera and i both understood the power of staying even when it hurt,
even when you are too barren to give anything other than devotion and your tears.
we knew the price to pay for loving someone with a heart big enough to take in the world
but still fe
i want to send you everything i've written
since this is the only way i can communicate with anyone anymore
but in this format, it is impossible to hide the ugliness gnawing under my skin
you'd see all my open wounds, the places i have been bandaging over and over
until they've becoming gaping holes with flimsy plastic coverings
i've never written you any beautiful rosy lies
i can only say 'my love' when i am being scathing
(you are not mine anymore and i'm not cruel enough to call this
love)
my best works will be a suicide note and the letter i sent you
trying to tell you which bits of this were your fault
we're both samson in our story,
i was supposed to be apologizing to you but i turned it into poetry which is just as fine but you don't see beauty in words you see the end destination of the sentence. for instance: i am in love with you. i wrote out what that meant to me three different times today, my angry love, my weeping love, the love i have for you even know that i know it is no good anymore (my expired coupon love) but you see the words in white picket fence stop points. i am [you are the trophy wife, you are his lovely, slightly distant prize and he takes no mistresses but this emotional unavailability may as well fuck you both and get it over with. he tells you th
All of my worst memories stem from getting drunk with you.
That should probably tell me something,
but these are the only times where I can get you to hold me
(the only time where i’m glad you’re taller)
so I don’t question the stolen liquor we’re drinking out of chipped coffee cups.
Sometimes, I feel like we should do something more exciting than
sit on the floor of your room and talk about nonsensical future plans.
Yet, it’s still the most exciting thing I’ll do for months
so I let you name our nonexistent cat
and pretend to enjoy talking about things we'll never do and the cliche name.
(another cupful
give me back my pursed lips, crinkled up
with my childhood sadness, too red to see straight
when you saw my wagging tongue, why was your first thought
'beg'
my mouth stays clamped, tongue chewed down
so i don’t taste the bitterness you planted there
return to me my claws, those sharp talons you replaced with
bloody fingernails so i could rip myself apart
and ignore how you were slowly emptying me
with my own anger and misguided passion
affection still feels like a knife that you’re slowly pressing
into all my lovers hands
i just want my ability to feel
without touching your name in the process
I should stop saying 'I love you', even if I mean it. Because I do, I mean it too much. I mean it with every early morning text message I send you and with the soft looks I give too freely because sometimes I forget that I'm not allowed to feel this way anymore. Some part of me knew what an awful combination we were. I cared about you too much and not enough where it mattered; you wanted parts of me I couldn't give so you settled for the scraps I gave you until I resented you for that too. I knew we were over when our arguments turned from us yelling to you begging and me crying in the arms of people who felt just enough like you to make it
let me be clear:
bruises are meant to fade so your fingerprints
aren’t still pressed to my hips or
my thighs but if i squeeze my eyes
hard enough i swear i feel you pressing down
hard enough that i’m still choking out ‘no’
two years later that i can’t help but
gasp for air around anyone who has your fingers
or lets me believe that safety isn’t a compromise for
consent: ‘yes’ not grabby hands and cartoons and
changing the sheets so my mom doesn’t know
how i ashamed i am to be so needy that i can’t
even wash off the way you called me ‘beautiful’ like
it was forepl
Áve María, grátia pléna-
One. womb to our mother’s shaking hands.
my birthright was to love you,
she says this family is sugar cane suckers, a generation
of plantation house birthing suites passed down
like wedding rings, brass and sour tasting
marriage to marriage, home is only where
i can hold you and you feel safe
Two. womb to our mother is weeping again.
does she know we can see her this time?
it’s not so bad, it’s not so much worse, see,
see this one says goodnight and leaves,
see this one doesn’t scream
see? why is she still crying?
Three. womb to our mother, our father.
the ideal family
he says ‘age is just a number’
and i know the years in which
my body has grown out is
shorter than the number of years between us
but he looks at me and sees something
more than what i am right now, he
holds my hand and calls me ‘doll’ and
i think if i can pretend to be older, he can
pretend his hands have not touched women
twice my age
i say
‘this is my choice’
even though my mom still
has to sign her name next to mine when
i ask for birth control and i feel
like an adult because i say
‘yes’ and i mean it and
he doesn’t question the intent behind it or
how i was just learning what sex
dear you,
there was that time at the beach. that's when i knew that whatever decisions i made, i would get back to that feeling. it was the throat-closed, closed fist, 'i would count every damn piece of sand if you asked me to' desperation that i hadn't felt since the last person who fucked me over as well as you did. i was the addict and you were the- 'we'll be fine. together, right?'. right. you knew that next morning what i meant when i said together and that scared you, didn't it? i wasn't saying things in an abstract sense that all your other friends liked, i was babbling 'i love you' and trying not to puke and fuck you for saying it ba
I.
you and i are a repeated sadness
a noose hung on the back of a door
asking to be let in, let go
II.
you tell me i ruin things when you get drunk enough
and i think of old temples
all the prayers that had slipped from people's lips there
wonder if they recognized that even sacred spaces crumble eventually
III.
you have eyes like icarus and a heart like zeus and your fingertips burn
but hera and i both understood the power of staying even when it hurt,
even when you are too barren to give anything other than devotion and your tears.
we knew the price to pay for loving someone with a heart big enough to take in the world
but still fe
i want to send you everything i've written
since this is the only way i can communicate with anyone anymore
but in this format, it is impossible to hide the ugliness gnawing under my skin
you'd see all my open wounds, the places i have been bandaging over and over
until they've becoming gaping holes with flimsy plastic coverings
i've never written you any beautiful rosy lies
i can only say 'my love' when i am being scathing
(you are not mine anymore and i'm not cruel enough to call this
love)
my best works will be a suicide note and the letter i sent you
trying to tell you which bits of this were your fault
we're both samson in our story,
i was supposed to be apologizing to you but i turned it into poetry which is just as fine but you don't see beauty in words you see the end destination of the sentence. for instance: i am in love with you. i wrote out what that meant to me three different times today, my angry love, my weeping love, the love i have for you even know that i know it is no good anymore (my expired coupon love) but you see the words in white picket fence stop points. i am [you are the trophy wife, you are his lovely, slightly distant prize and he takes no mistresses but this emotional unavailability may as well fuck you both and get it over with. he tells you th
All of my worst memories stem from getting drunk with you.
That should probably tell me something,
but these are the only times where I can get you to hold me
(the only time where i’m glad you’re taller)
so I don’t question the stolen liquor we’re drinking out of chipped coffee cups.
Sometimes, I feel like we should do something more exciting than
sit on the floor of your room and talk about nonsensical future plans.
Yet, it’s still the most exciting thing I’ll do for months
so I let you name our nonexistent cat
and pretend to enjoy talking about things we'll never do and the cliche name.
(another cupful
give me back my pursed lips, crinkled up
with my childhood sadness, too red to see straight
when you saw my wagging tongue, why was your first thought
'beg'
my mouth stays clamped, tongue chewed down
so i don’t taste the bitterness you planted there
return to me my claws, those sharp talons you replaced with
bloody fingernails so i could rip myself apart
and ignore how you were slowly emptying me
with my own anger and misguided passion
affection still feels like a knife that you’re slowly pressing
into all my lovers hands
i just want my ability to feel
without touching your name in the process
I should stop saying 'I love you', even if I mean it. Because I do, I mean it too much. I mean it with every early morning text message I send you and with the soft looks I give too freely because sometimes I forget that I'm not allowed to feel this way anymore. Some part of me knew what an awful combination we were. I cared about you too much and not enough where it mattered; you wanted parts of me I couldn't give so you settled for the scraps I gave you until I resented you for that too. I knew we were over when our arguments turned from us yelling to you begging and me crying in the arms of people who felt just enough like you to make it
let me be clear:
bruises are meant to fade so your fingerprints
aren’t still pressed to my hips or
my thighs but if i squeeze my eyes
hard enough i swear i feel you pressing down
hard enough that i’m still choking out ‘no’
two years later that i can’t help but
gasp for air around anyone who has your fingers
or lets me believe that safety isn’t a compromise for
consent: ‘yes’ not grabby hands and cartoons and
changing the sheets so my mom doesn’t know
how i ashamed i am to be so needy that i can’t
even wash off the way you called me ‘beautiful’ like
it was forepl
You do not vanish in the presence of the universe,
you become more visible,
clear,
true.
They say we see the past when we look at the stars,
but there is only now when I’m with you.
And I want to gaze at you in a haze,
forever, eternally, feverishly
yet wide awake. Aware.
Eyes wide open, I stare -
I will never shut them to God’s light.
Pythia, guide me down this unknown path,
may it wind its way through the ravine
in bright sunlight and moonlight only.
Let there be no single hazard to cast a shadow
so that i may bath
in the illuminated waters of your bight.
For you are the sun, you are the moon.
You are every galaxy within a
this isn't progress, because you're irreversible. by paperheartsyndrome, literature
Literature
this isn't progress, because you're irreversible.
You were never meant for me.
I knew it in the most obvious manner. It was in the way you had a subtle sort of comfort in your own skin a quiet and humble confidence while I struggled to make sense of the prints on my fingertips and the way one of my eyes crinkled in the corner more than the other when I smiled. You felt safe with yourself while I was always warring with my own reflection. Half the time, I didn't know who I was. A quarter of the time, I still don't. You would call this progress if you were here to see, but I just call it sad.
When you miss something for long enough, you start to forget the exact way that things
Pyres aren't just for the dead. by seaboundstars, literature
Literature
Pyres aren't just for the dead.
I am a fire-starter;
all dragon's breath,
birthed by flame.
When you finally said
you needed me, I was
already reborn. Ash smeared
along my face,
fire drizzling my body.
New.
I'm not the girl you were
hoping for, darling.
Too wild for your clammy
hands to grip and sculpt,
I am blazing, igniting.
My hands house infernos, my
heart is now a hearth.
I do not need
you to keep me warm.
I feel different
missing your city isn't the same anymore,
it’s no longer just missing a place that feels safer,
it is missing you.
I don't understand how you make me feel like
I can call you at 3:42am and ask
"what does it taste like when you are scared?"
you taste like something entirely different, and
I am learning the difference between sex and fucking
we haven't done either, but
no one has mattered like this to me before.
I have fallen for twelve-story crash-and-burn buildings,
for people who shrunk like a dandelion hit by the wind, they were not fortresses
and you aren't either-- everyone has a history, and
my emotions have alw
your father is losing his faith
he tells you all the time, hey girl i love you i love you
you are making me lose my mind,
i hate you i hate you
he tells you all the time
your mother is losing her mind
she tells you about her sickness, the way you make her cry
there's no remedy, it's won't end until you die
it's your fault, she hates you she hates you
small screen says love ya baby love ya good night
and you are losing yourself
watch your weight drop and watch it climb,
i love you i love you i hate you i hate you
consistency is never mine
in a different world, the truth is key to being fine.
you
impossible glorious
and the charm
of you
(r witchcraft passion)
magnificently (im)pure
(im)prudent
sun-golden with mischief
and wonder
exploring
(with your telescoping neck)
the universe of sin
cerity I see in you
The Sun Sets To The West by Hellomyhoneybee, literature
Literature
The Sun Sets To The West
Stir your fingers so gingerly
On skin you've found to feel
Just like the orange sea.
Sun sets to the east
But your eyes linger
And keep on me.
Stuck in a place staggered
Between my heart's
Unsettling stature;
Won't you go for a swim
In the my deep blue
Pasture?
Her Eyes
La Café Asienne
To Puabi and Christina
To the woman it concerns
To me, there is more to a portrait than a woman looking at her painter.
Rough times.
Wars and conquests.
Man was bold.
He saw a foreign land and ran to conquer.
He saw a solitary woman and ran to conquer.
He saw the earth of both.
Earth is female; her heart is fire.
The heart of the woman has more
More than desire
What lies beneath
Finds expression in her eyes.
The anguish of men's abuse
The desire to be cherished
Remains locked in her heart
For centuries
Moments difficiles.
Les guerres et les conquêtes.
L'homme était gras.
Il vit s
So hi to all the people who are watching me. I actually forgot about this account for a while because well, no one but me paid attention to it for so long that I expected that to continue. But uh, looks like I was wrong! All my poetry goes on my Tumblr usually, but then someone reminded me about this account and when I logged in... well, I was a little more than shocked. Thanks to all the people that watch me now and liked my poems! It really means a lot. I have a lot of other stuff that I'll post on here so... here's to more poetry!