I want to write my heart away.
But at the same time I, -
I want it to stay.
What a horrible in between state.
I wish that I could be an unforgiving
woman. One who could say
after being told that I cannot
take any photos or tag you in
"People don’t have to know that we even still talk," - you said.
I have the words screenshotted because I, -
I could hardly believe them myself.
Hopefully your girls do not
check my tumblr page, -
you’d probably lose some fresh meat.
I forgive you often.
Not because you deserve it, -
but because I made promises to the
man I once knew and I, -
I believe that he will return one day.
I am the most optimistic
person I know and believe
me when I say that I
The worst thing happened on that
trip. It was your dad who
started it, - and you went with it because
flirting is your favorite pastime.
The girls name was ginger and your
dad pointed to you to call you
garlic. What a pair, eh?
I was right fucking there.
And of course I was jealous.
What a stupid question to have
I was jealous but mostly hurt because I,
I was shown zero respect.
After a year and a
half I expected a bit more than that.
Foolish of me, right?
I have nothing good to say tonight.
I could reflect on the moments where you were the man who I knew, -
when you forgot that you are
trying to be single and
distancing yourself from
But after reflecting again on those
two moments, -
I am not sure that I can sound
~ Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via postimpression)
I will give until I have nothing left, and then make a gift to my lover
of my oceans of nothingness, and take so little, barely a mouthful,
barely enough to live on, but it will be enough for me.
there’s a mouthful of man
where my cunt used to be. note
how I lean against this pole
like I’ve got the right chromosomes
for this game. like I was born
with this name. I guess
you could call it a compulsion
but tell me you don’t code switch
from morning bed to subway wait
to secretary to barstool to bed again –
the stretch from femme to boi to butch to man’s
the feathered edge of a scalpel, so close
the sweat even smells the same. and here
I am, your rock god andromorph.
you want more than the cock
in my pants and that’s good, that’s
what everybody’s looking for, a little
freak in your Friday, a shapeshifter lover
so you’ve got every excuse to call
the wrong name, to name the wrong
body, the wrong end, to want
what boils low in the belly
where the good words don’t go
but the letters tat themselves together
like lace under old ladies’ fingers into um
and oh and the thousand practiced
hesitations – I like to let a little nipple
show, sometimes, to flash the twat
behind the dildo. I’m that snap
between nod and wake on the train
when your cheekbone hits the stranger’s
shoulder, the what damn the where
am I – transgression’s the infant
I give birth to every time the stage lights
go up. you’re a sucker
for the sideshow and I’m your spirit
gum queen, your strapped-down
goddess, your husband with a little extra
in between, I’m Venus with a goatee
I markered on myself, no Hottentot
can shame me, you can’t mock
this, I made this, my playlist
is gay bliss, go on DJ,
break it down – everybody
wants somebody. every body wants
some body. everybody wants. some.
body. a girl’s got to use every tool
she’s got and beg, barter, or steal
the rest. come on, you know you want
to be transformed. you know
you want to be a star. stick whatever
you want in those slacks. bind, pack,
beard if you want – what matters
is the saunter. the walk. how you carry
what you’ve got. the snake
around your waist is incapable
of lying, uroboros at the strip
joint, satan at the cabaret. unravel
what makes a man a man. name one
hing I can’t buy at the five and dime
or the costume shop. when I take
the streets as me or the dude I now know
I can be, the sidewalks clear. this swagger
is a 21st-century alchemy. say you know me.
tell me now, who’s the man.
"So I have a question: If it’s “somewhat pedophilic” when my adult husband consensually spanks me in a simulated “punishment,” what should we call it when parents do the same physical thing to actual children in an actual punishment?"
An excellent article that initiates a rarely-touched upon conversation on the link between sexual spanking and parentally punitive spanking.
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.
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