An excellent and comprehensive article that paints a more wholesome picture of the Jameis Winston alleged rape case than many news outlets have provided. TMZ also did wonderful research that allowed much of this evidence to come to light to begin with.
Every fault line buried in the soft soil of the continents is a tattoo.
Every time it rains in spring the ground is toned anew,
just as every time lightning strikes a tree the bark is tattooed.
Even the earth shares an affinity for ink.
There are some people who spend their entire lives
searching for a way to find home, because the needle
of their internal compass has never spun in the desired direction,
and their one reminder is the dragon on their shoulder,
the arrow on their wrist, the constellation hidden on their lower back.
The colored map of their skin is the map of their origins.
They replace the faulty compass needle
with the working needle of the tattoo artist.
You would look for your home if you could, too.
And it is not the cheetah’s fault for the way its spots never slip from its coat
no matter how fast it runs,
just as is it never the fault of the people whose skin you shame
for wanting something on their body that will never leave
Even after everyone else in their life already has.
It is not your body- you have your own house to live in.
It is not your body that will one day grow wrinkled and loose with age,
and why should it matter if the tattoo falls and sags with that very body?
It is still such beautiful skin to grow with,
because the tattoo grows with it.
—Writings For Winter
Dead weight makes me a mother, and I carry it like a limb
It will not be amputated because it is more of a living thing
than I, though I coil beneath like a body with post-mortem spring.
My landfill womb believed the myth that there would be spring.
It dredged brackish depths for the black faith to walk that limb
and froze waiting in winter, writhing into stillness like a made thing.
I cradle death like a baby— so quiet! hardly murmurs a thing!
It is from me, from my grave, from my breast’s parched spring.
Dead, but heavy, poised without moving a single frozen limb.
Limbs are but things. Most things die without the spring.
This recipe is wonderful for anyone. You can use fruit and cream cheese, or fruit and Nutella, or even yogurt. The more creative, the more delicious!
4 slices of soft white bread
1/4 cup white granulated sugar
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 cup softened cream cheese
Cut the crusts away from the sliced bread. Using a rolling pin, flatten the crustless bread slices.
In one bowl, whisk the eggs.
In another bowl, whisk together the cinnamon and sugar.
Dollop desired amount of cream cheese onto one edge of each slice of bread, then roll the slices up.
Heat a pan to medium heat, then grease lightly. When hot, place rolls on the pan, crease down. Brown all sides of the rolls.
Once browned, transfer immediately into the bowl of cinnamon sugar. Coat completely, then serve with syrup for dipping.
Possible garnishes include a dollop of whipped cream or a light dusting of powdered sugar.
The window’s old & paint-stuck in its frame.
If we force it open the glass may break.
Broken windows cut, and let in the cold
to sharpen house-warm air with outside cold
that aches to buckle every saving frame
& let the wind drive ice in through the break
till chair cupboard walls stormhit all goods break.
The family picture, wrecked, soaked in cold,
would slip wet & dangling out of its frame.
Framed, it’s a wind-break. It averts the worst cold.
I think a lot about your legs.
How they fold in like
a broken chair and
extend out toward me
like they are
reaching for heaven.
The way they move
about my room and
the way the sun light
I think of how they
against each other
like a lazy violin and bow.
When my hands
run down them,
how the smooth of them
electrifies my fingertips.
no one has ever
fantasized about them before.
They were too busy
on your eyes,
the dimples that
pierce your lower back,
the shadow your figure makes
on their dorm room wall.
But it was those legs that
brought you to me,
at a lonely coffee shop
midday in the valley.
Long before I knew what
those legs would mean,
wrapped around my hips
in the earliest of morning.
Your calves waltzing out
the back door
and into your car,
returning to me
with a skip in its step,
one sweet limb kicking back
when my lips
welcome you home.
I am looking for you again. In airports when your last name is called over the intercom, through clouds of smoke, in parked cars I pass. I keep telling myself to forget the smoke-screened version of you I have created, the one who has your hair and ambles from place to place. “Think of HIM,” I say. “Of who he really was.”
Think of the piles of dandruff on his pillow, the sarcastic way he said “I love you,” and the way he said, “This doesn’t mean we’re going to date again” after kissing you. Think of the pictures of his hand on her knee only a week after you stopped talking. Think of every minute you spent waiting for him to pick you up. Think of the way he never loved you.
Do not, I repeat do NOT, think of the way he looked at you mid-conversation, or the hours you spent in his bed giggling and hiding under the covers as his fan blew on your back. Do not think of the way he blurted out that he loved you. It was not “perfect”. Quit telling yourself so. Forget the front seat of his car and the humid air that leaked through the cracked window. Burn the field where it happened for the first time to the ground. Do not look back on every moment and wonder where you went wrong or what you could have done to keep his attention.
Erase every damned song that reminds you of him and only listen to songs that came out in the past year, songs that have not been spoiled by his memory. Think of the way he did not want to join in the trivia game at the restaurant you ate your last meal at because everybody else who was playing was in their forties. Think of him pressed against her, the same way he was against you, in a fucking shed. Think of the way your feelings embarrassed him. Do not think of his record collection, or the books you talked about, or the way he touched you. Do not tell yourself that he has been the only one who’s understood. Do not whisper his name. Do not think of him as the first boy to grab your hand as he drove, do not think of him with a noose around his neck, do not think of his kisses. Do not. Do not. Do not.
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