I envy you. Every moment
You can leave me.

I cannot
leave myself.

—Anna Swirszczynska (via larmoyante)
Oct 21, 2014  /  +7820  /  via
#p  #right 
Oct 21, 2014  /  +24021  /  via  /  src

Illustration from ‘An ABZ of Love,’ Kurt Vonnegut’s favorite vintage Danish guide to sexuality. (x)
Oct 21, 2014  /  +5429  /  via  /  src

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.

Oct 21, 2014  /  +88  /  via  /  src
SKIRT STEAK GIRLS

The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit
shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through
the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word.

One boy assures me I am not like other girls.
Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment.

I listen to them speak of women like menus;

medium-rare
lace skirt
trimmed steak.

I cross my legs and nearly fold my voice
into a teal blue Tiffany’s box.

This is the part where I prove that I am chill.
I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill?

As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young
women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits

How much?

Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot
pool balls, as I have done so many times.

The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats
for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car.

I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture
as a ponytail holder around my wrist.

In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator
by association.

When I get the courage to say something,
I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi.

I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person,
which is why I’m telling him this in the first place.

I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up
his sister, his mother, his girlfriend-
I have to make this accessible to him.

It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform
the sexist, politely.

It is the dilemma of the woman
who wishes to be heard-

Let us give you this reality check
with a spoonful of sugar.

Let us make this easier for you to hear
than it is for us to live.

SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

i have so much inside me right now, but i’m scared that if i end up trying to get them out somehow i’ll only end up complicating things, because i can see how things will pan out so clearly - me trying to say something and all of it coming out in one giant big mess that neither of us has the energy to clean up anymore. and so it will just be left lying there, staining us everywhere we go because we won’t know how to avoid it. this is all so strangely disorienting. i find myself slipping back into my tradition of overthinking and i always feel guilty when i catch myself in that act because i don’t know if you’ve fully accepted that part of me yet. it feels like i’m doing something wrong by bringing up those things, because they are always greeted with invalidation and i am so tired of that. i am tired, i really am, and i don’t know what to do about it right now because i know that i do not want to let this go. i think of you more often than i can help, and my favourite memories of us are the ones in which you are the vulnerable one, because i no longer want to be that. i no longer want to feel like every move of mine is a burden, but that follows me everywhere i go, like a shadow. it is exhausting to constantly question every thought of mine when i am in love, if only to draw you closer to me. i have stomached a lot for us, tastes i never though i could swallow, but i am sick of being taken for granted in the ways that you do. that stems from jealousy, because i can’t seem to have as much faith in your love for me as you seem to have in mine for yours, and that fucking sucks. that fucking sucks. i need signs that this is working, that you still love me, that we are happy, and that we can survive each other. in the beginning it felt like we were saving each other, that we were inventing rescue by the way we touched each other. and that’s all i want. for both of us to do everything again from the beginning. i have done it all with you, the unimaginable and the cliched, and i would do it all over again in a heartbeat, in a nanosecond. there is no substitute for love, and the gross unfairness of that fact is almost unfathomable for me, but there is love, there is love in the way i think of you - how can i live without the hands for your body anymore? without the eyes for your face? without each other’s skin for living? and how did i go so long without this? 

inelegancies:

royal is all to hell.
you say ‘fuck’ three times and look like you want to kiss me or kill me.
me i’m holding my jaw up, holding my phone so it stays in one piece.
you say, ‘why did you have to go and do that’ you say, ‘was it worth it’
you are not so holy like this, not so overgrown halo and sugar voice. 
royal is cursing you, hating you, fearless young god with vengeful breath.
both of you i mean,
cusp child, eating my hands.
i think i might swallow my teeth like cough drops, unless someone does something. 

Oct 21, 2014  /  +89  /  via  /  src
#p 
Oct 21, 2014  /  +38363  /  via  /  src


I Won't Be Found
The Tallest Man on Earth
565 plays

slydig:

why be rude when you can be nude 

Oct 21, 2014  /  +261711  /  via  /  src
mk