The Sweetest Thing
Sexuality and Intimacy

 

“’Tell me what happens the first time you see a woman naked.’
'The first time you see a woman naked will not be like you imagined. There will be no love, no trust, no intimacy. You won’t even be in the same room as her. You won’t get to smile as she undresses you and you undress her. You won’t get to calm her nerves with nerves of your own. You won’t get to kiss her, feeling her lips and the edge of her tongue. You won’t get to brush your fingers over the lace of her bra or count her ribs or feel her heartbeat. The first time you see a woman naked you will be sitting in front of a computer screen watching someone play at intimacy and perform at sex. She will contort her body to please everyone in the room but her. You will watch this woman who is not a woman, pixelated and filtered and customized. She will come ready-made, like an order at a restaurant. The man on the screen will be bigger than you, rougher than you. He will teach you how to talk to her. He will teach you where to put your hands and he will teach you what you’re supposed to like. He will teach you to take what is yours. You must unlearn this. You must unlearn this twisted sense of love. You must unlearn the definition of pleasure and intimacy you are being taught. Kill this idea of love, this idea of entitlement, this way of scarring one another.’”
1 day ago | 47,233 notes
2 days ago
Excerpts from last year’s diary

thespiritualslut:

He told me how much
he loves me. I howled
into the pillow.

The drag 
of jagged fingernails 
through the skin of my back 
is nothing in comparison.

Pain brings warmth, and
with warmth comes
pleasure.

I’ve craved nothing 
more than to throw myself 
into the womb of an open 
furnace, to be showered 
with hot coals, to press 
my body closer, closer 
to any vessel offering 
but a flicker of a flame.

Orgasm is transcendence.

Whispering and kissing.
Hysteria and violence.

He wrapped both hands 
around my throat.

I wanted to be silent
for him. I wanted to be
patient.

I surrender my breath
and my blood, wholly.

The bruises melt
from pink to plum.

2 days ago | 91 notes

Water Lilies by Claude Monet

4 days ago | 31,850 notes
I Practice Death To Forget You

 

“I do all the things you used to hate. I dye my hair colors that make the church ladies stare. I go to bed without dinner and subside entirely on air. I make tea and pour cream in after. I give up reading. I give up The Beatles. I never eat another plate of scrambled eggs. I shape myself into someone you would dislike. My speech sharpens. My teeth turn to fangs. I let go of the softness that drew you to me. My fingernails itch to become claws and I don’t fight it. This is what it takes to survive. I let people into my bed that I would have walked right past with you. He is sad-eyed and needs my flimsy paper wrists to support him. I pour every late night with you into him, until he says, ‘I love you, I love you’ and I say, ‘Shh, you’ll ruin the fun.’ I do what it takes to forget you, and at the end, have more bruises than the ones I started with, but I can finally look at a sunset and not feel anything at all.”

—Lora Mathis

4 days ago | 23,755 notes
For the love of my father

This is the year that I outlive my parents’ marriage:

I am a day older than the union that prophesied my creation,

my bones surviving the armageddon that should have reverted them

to the blood and bile from which they were formed.

What I am is really stolen calcium, one dual strand of holy coding,

crow’s feet on my father’s face, my mother’s hidden grey hair.

My bed is full and warm, and my mother’s bed is half empty,

while my father sleeps for the first night away from the house

that he bought to raise his children in—

my genetics are so misspelled, if I am the product of such loss,

that I will collect lovers like tarot cards, with a cheapness,

never able to trust time to a partner after watching 18 years rot,

like wedding silver crusting over, like lace beginning to stiffen and crack.

Why I live longer than the happiness that should be still,

my palms do not read for me to see, 

though I chase the veins from my chest to my wrists,

there is no road that returns me to the womb before I was a being.

The truth is that I am not any better than my father,

whose three daughters will outlast his two vow-made unions:

I am not so kind, nor patient, nor enduring as he,

nor do I have any hope ever to be,

and I pray my selfish wishes away, that his joy far out-shadow mine.

Fathers wish that their daughters will live more fully than they have,

and I, a daughter, pray that he have more, at least, than I. 

—B. 

4 days ago | 2 notes
In commemoration of self-induced pleasure

It has been a long while since I have written him any poetry,

which is a testament to the strength of the withered, and newly blooming,

a statement that I am not willing to give my bone-etching love

to the boy who believes that he is the prophet of his good fortune.

I think I am the best news the angels deliver:

when I make love, I become blind and reduced, steam like sugar.

I become a single mouth to gasp from,

two unsteady hands to give without expectation,

and still there are lovers in this world who never love sober.

My prophecy is that I am delicious, like nectar from the spoon

that begs to be licked,

that I am not ready for anything that I do not want to be ready for.

My goosebumps become Latin,

my eyelashes become the dislocated moons

of the planets where all tragedy and rebirth comes from.

When he writes poetry about the thing that is missing,

I put that thing between my lips and hum as if it’s a harmonica.

I never learned to play, but if I am trusting and sure, I can make a music

that will be more innocent than violin, more violent than a drum.

My voice becomes the exhale of a deep and clean relief,

because my poetry is the unconscious orgasm he cannot claim.

It has been a while since I have written him poetry,

but my pleasure does not cease with his eviction from my mind:

I write poetry for myself. I do it all the time.

—B. 

 

5 days ago | 1 note

The nocturne that has allowed me to wade into sleep for years of restless, lack-lustre nights. 

—B. 

244127 plays 5 days ago | 32,836 notes
One of the most tragic realizations of life is that people only have their kind of love to give, and not your kind.
4 weeks ago | 2,824 notes
1 month ago | 4 notes
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