Stay With Me by @biancaphipps | video here
Still one of my favorite poems from her.
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@biancaphipps
Stay With Me by @biancaphipps | video here
Still one of my favorite poems from her.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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GOOD NEWS! my book ācrown nobleā is now available for preorder!! reserve your autographed copy now!! https://bit.ly/crownnoble
āWhen the boy says he loves my body, but does not say he loves me, I let him.ā - Bianca Phipps
Be sure to snag the fan-favorite poem here!
Hi! A weird Facebook rabbit hole brought me to work spoken poem Stay with Me... As a French speaker, spoken poetry was not something I was familiar with until tonight, and I just wanted to let you know how touched your rendition left me... Truly amazing, thank you for this gift! Hope to see much, much more of your creations! -Kat
thank you so much, Kat!! I'm so glad my work was able to move you. thank you for reaching out to me :)

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Well, hello.
Iām so sorry that Iāve been MIA! Life has certainly gotten busy since Iāve last been on this sweet site. I missed ya. How have things been since I left? I hope to be a little more present here - though, if youāve missed me, you can always keep up with me on Twitter @biancajphipps or on Instagram @biancaphipps.Ā
See you around!
Hi, I was wondering if you have any poems written involving a dad who has an addiction to alcohol. I could really use something that speaks to me atm. Thank you sm! Keep up the great work I really enjoy everything you write it always speaks to me š»š
hello!! thank you so much for reaching out to me :) currently, i donāt have anything published dealing specifically with dads + alcohol (i wrote mostly about my momās addictions). but soon i will have something to offer you. until then, can i offer you this poem by patrick roche?Ā
How old are you? And is there any music you listen to when you write poetry?
hello!! i am 23 yrs old. i listen to a wide variety of music when i write, but usually regina spektor or thoseĀ āconcentrationā playlists on spotify. :)
Hello! I am a huge fan of your work and you make me want to become a better poet. What's your secret behind writing inspiring poems?
hello!! i'm so happy you like my stuff!! i never set out to write anything inspiring. i just try to be truthful. creative in language, honest in story. i hope what i write resonates with someone, but i just focus on expressing myself/my inner state/my thoughts as honest as i can.
is there any way to still get a copy of your chapbook? I cant seem to find it anywhere!
i did recently take it down!! i published & wrote that chapbook a few years ago and didnāt want it out in the universe anymore. if youād like an electronic copy, feel free to message me off anon & maybe we can work something out!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Not a question, it wouldn't let me send you a message but can I just say that your writing is so massively underrated. Every word you write is something I wish I spoke but couldn't find the words to. You're amazing!
thatās so sweet of you <3 <3 thank you for reaching out to me. youāve made my night!!!!!!!!!
hello i love your poetry very much that is all have a great day!!
hello!!! thank you very much that is very kind!!!!
āWords can only help you if you speak them.ā
ā Bianca Phipps, āAlmostsā (CUPSI 2014)
I want to sit at our kitchen table. A round, wooden table. Chairs on all sides. You, and me, across from each other. Maybe some days we sit next to each other, to pore over some bill neither of us completely understand. This table sits at the center of the room, as you sit in the center of my heart. I want to catch a smile from the other shore of this wooden lake. Watch as you smile, without realizing youāre smiling or that Iām realizing your smile, catch the curve of your mouth tick upward like the sun slowly crawls to peek over the shoulder of the earth. How the light steps in, our honored guest, to bless me with the gift of the sight of you, smiling at anything, across the kitchen table.
My grandma looks down at her shrimp dinner, A frown creasing her entire face, drawing everything together in thought. Without looking at him, she mentions to my dad, āI think, when they make marijuana legal, Iād like to try it.ā At 84, she has earned a joint. She has lost parts of herself to cancer. She has buried her first child & her only husband. My dad jokes that she will outlive us all. Immortality is a sick gift, a frayed laughā and yet his jokes are not just joke. His smile fades into something honest, some dusted memory flickering to life. During my dadās childhood, she performed magic. Old tenants of the house greeting him in the bathroom mirror, men with crisp suits and no faces holding court in the living room, a scream drawing all the family out of their rooms and into confusion. (I know this only from his memories, but I have seen the color of truth in his eyes. It is the same shade as fear.) I like to imagine her then: Her hands, gnarled root grinding powder with the same mortar & pestle she flattened the tamale maiz. Her voice, a rasping hex, small at first-- her grass greener than the neighbors, her pecans tripping out of the trees at the ripe time-- then growing largerā her life elongated, her son home first. Later, he says, she buried the old books, traded hexes for hymns, hung a picture of Jesus in every room, kissed it each morning. I donāt know why. Perhaps the fear of whatever was conjured. Perhaps she grew to love it. Love is only fear we become familiar with. We could let it consume us. Or we bury it in the backyard, replace it with some other manās face.
unfinished longevity spell for my brujabuelita | bianca phipps

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He says, I will choose you every day. A twilight crocus coming up for air. The emerald revival of all the trees behind the apartment. How he wakes up on Tuesday morning, the pink kiss of the sun. The miracle of choice blossoms in our living room. It brings with it the sunrise, a blazing yellow that nudges the blue out. It releases the aria of his laughter, the tempo my heart sings. It tugs the smile out of the bed of my mouth, the softest alarm. Have you ever wanted to be worthy of a person? Have you ever caught them looking at you and thought, they already believe I am? I would walk through the gates of hell for him. I would walk out, eyes shut, if just to save that heart. I am a warbling voice. I am a shaky exhale. I have only known the trembling wariness of a hesitant history, until he asked me to be sure of him, and I realized I already was. Blessed be the steady breath between us. Praise be the choice we grow each morning. Hallelujah to the new feeling he helped me name trust. I am always sure he is right behind me, without looking.
fuck orpheus. i want a real man. | bianca phipps
I love you. Can I preface with that? I do. Even when it feels like I am always playing coroner with our conversations, performing autopsies on apologies you gave me years ago. Even when I am dragging our dirt from the basement and spreading it all over the porch. Even when you think I hate you. I love you. I think I have always been afraid of you. I mean, I have always been afraid of you knowing me. I mean, I never let you know me. You like me as you think I am. I can be that daughter for the rest of my life if it keeps you happy. Iād cut off my own hand if you needed it. Swallow all the blood. No mess. Look. No mess. Clean. Just like you like it. I mean, I think youād hate me. I know you hate parts of me you donāt know are parts of me. I like to think youād change your mind, if you knew, but I inherited your mulish heart. I love it. My heart. Like your heart. I do love the parts of me that are you. Even when you donāt. Even when I think I donāt. I do. You were never the villain in my storybook. Never the monster in the closet. Never the bad father you thought you were sometimes, even when you were, sometimes. You were always my dad. Dad. Dad. Dad, Iām sorry. I am a clumsy liar. Spilling secrets on the carpet. What a mess. Donāt look. What a mess. Iāll swallow it all. Iāll swallow myself. Turn into a bird. Fly up the chimney. Delicate, like you wanted me. Small. You always told me you wished Iād stayed small. You taught me to love myself. I did, Dad. I did. I do. Can I end with that? I do.
work in progress | 10.15