I do not want to be blood and earth. Blood and earth is fallible, sore throats and coughing and running into walls.
I want to be theory and chalk. Theory and chalk is neat, logical, things lining up and meeting in myriad beautiful ways. Chalk is so much cleaner. Except when it gets on your fingers, but that is a blood and earth problem, I think.
Leave chalk alone.
I’m the blood and earth sister here. Give me something physical, sensuous, something I can hold in my hands and mold with my fingers. Give me something to shape and form, something rooted and composed of a thousand layers of shed skin and refuse and ground-down stones and the lives and deaths of a million creatures.
And be my sister, my theory and chalk sister. Give me your dreams, and I will give them form; give me your patterns, and I will lend them purpose. Without you, my blood and earth devolves to shapelessness, and without me, your theory and chalk is blown out in a breath.
POETRY IN MOTION
Think about the first name you were ever called,
and then think how long it took until
you got called a pussy
or a slut,
or a bitch,
or a whore,
all of which are words that fall too close to ‘girl.’
Think about the first time you got called a ‘girl’
and they said it with a sneer.
Like it was a bad thing.
For a boy, it is the lowest degradation to get called a girl.
For a girl, it is the lowest degradation to get called a girl.
Remember, black widow spiders and female praying mantises eat their partners after intercourse.
Remember, it’s the lionesses who hunt.
They come back with bloody muzzles, dragging bloated carcasses as the alpha lion strides around with his mane puffing out.
Remember, it’s only the female mosquitoes who drink blood.
We’re the ones who do the necessary work, dirty our hands,
fuck or fight or both.
We’re often the smaller sex, which makes us a harder target
as we slink close and sink our teeth in.
Remember: we’re deadly.
You should be proud to be called a girl.
'Most Female Killers use Poison,' theappleppielifestyle
If you don’t think soul mates exist after watching this I don’t even know what to say to you.
And what I love about it is how perfectly they match up, how much their lives connect and overlap, how much they love each other, but they still only think of each other as friends. I think that’s such an amazing kind of relationship. Non romantic soul mates are just beautiful.
What To Do When Your Boyfriend’s Asshole Best Friend Says, “Hey, Never Trust Anything That Bleeds For Seven Days And Doesn’t Die,
OR The Only Poem I’ll Ever Write About Periods.
Don’t excuse him because he’s had
at least three lite beers
and is sweating through his black button down
that his mom or exgirlfriend
probably bought him.
Don’t excuse him because he’s been turned down
by the last six girls he went on dates with
after meeting them on tindr
with a picture that’s seven years old
Don’t excuse him because
he’s usually such a nice guy
because you don’t want to be a bitch
because you don’t want to cause a scene
because when you were seventeen
your sister told you
no one likes an angry feminist
Let me explain something to you.
Every goddamn motherfucking month since I was eleven,
a part of me
tore itself to shreds
ripped itself apart inside me
and then remade itself.
So yes, I bleed for seven days
and I don’t die
You know what else can do that?
Things of legend.
Fuck, I can even
So I say, never trust anything that can’t
bleed for seven days and not die.
You know what that makes it?
So let’s see, hon,
What you’re made of.
If you can bleed for seven days
and not die.
Rip out his jugular with your teeth.
And when he bleeds for seven seconds
spit on his corpse and say,
I thought not.
Katherine Tucker (via alchemy)
this is my fucking favorite thing ever i love it so so so so much i cnt even explain its just s o goo d
A man with OCD recites a poem about his one true love. It’s heartbreaking.
Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
but what I’d really like to say is:
“My name means island of the ships but once
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck-
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”
I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.
The doctors, they want facts not details.
“I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually-“
The right or the left?
The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do?
The adults are a spew of questions.
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
People my own age are the worst.
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
I’m pulled apart, my interests travelling highway 2
my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
But what about me?
Where’s the chance to say,
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
so I can swim with the stars.
I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it.
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”
No wonder none of us know who we are anymore.
we are abberations
(unwanted, unloved, undone)
twisted creatures with twisted wings
(broken and shattered and filled with rage)
reaching for the sun
(come to me, come to me, oh sweet beloved)
but blinded by light
(ever turned to you though the skin blisters and bleeds)
crawling clawing squirming
(it is our right, our right, our right to feel)
grabbing for flesh and bone and warmth
(make us whole, make us complete, make us be)
longing screaming failing to fly
(it burns to move, to flutter, our feathers torn)
because the ground is so near
(so close, so close, the ground goes splat)
and the sky too high
(but never, oh never, never high enough)
We are out of Time.
We are out of Place
out of Space
out of Rhyme.
There is no rhythm to our Vision,
no reason for our Crime.
We float away like Jetsam
upon a river of Brine.
There is no up to our Down
no down to our Ups,
So we fall Sideways in life
as we try to Stand back up.