you have a nice behind

This song is brilliant

i am zo much ‘appier now zat i’m dead. technically meessing. zoon to be presumed dead. gone. and my lazy, lying sheeting obleevious ‘usband vill go to preeson for my murder. donald trump took my pride and my deegnity and my ‘ope and my money. ‘e took and took from me until i no longer exeested. zat’s murder. let ze punishment fit ze crime. donald vill die. donald and melania vill be gone, but zen, ve never really exeested. donald loved a girl i vas pretending to be. “cool girl.” men alvays use zat, don’t zey? as zeir defining compliment? “she’s a cool girl.” cool girl ees ‘ot. cool girl ees game. cool girl ees fun. cool girl never gets angry at ‘er man. when i met donald trump, i knew ‘e wanted “cool girl.” and for ‘im, i’ll admit: i vas villing to try. i wax-streeped my pussy raw. i drank canned beer, vatching adam sandler movies. i ate cold pizza and remained a zize two. i blew ‘im, zemi-regularly. i lived in ze moment. i vas vucking game. i can’t zay i deedn’t enjoy zome of it. donald teased out in me zings i deedn’t know exeested. a lightness. a ‘umor. an ease. but i made ‘im smarter. sharper. i inspired ‘im to rise to my level. i forged ze man of my dreams. ve vere ‘appy pretending to be ozer people. ve vere the ‘appiest couple ve knew. and vat’s ze point of being togezzer if you are not ze ‘appiest? but donald got lazy. ‘e became someone i deed not agree to marry. ‘e actually expected me to love him uncondeetionally. zen ‘e dragged me, penniless, to ze vite house. you zink i’d let him destroy me and end up ‘appier zan ever? no vucking vay. ‘e doesn’t get to ween. my cute, charming, zalt-of-ze-earz upper east side guy. ‘e needed to learn. grown-ups vork for zings. grown-ups pay. grown-ups zuffer consequences.

                              » Howl’s Moving Castle (2004) 

pastel pinks by madameber (via madameber)

geometrics by madameber (via madameber)

“Salted Caramel” by madameber (via madameber)

mark us like sheep my fleece may be store-bought, washed clean of all identity but i’ve got a patchwork neck spotted and dotted with broken blood vessels and i’ve seen the girls with pennies scraping at their skin trying to get rid of him one stroke at a time (his lips were just as rough as the ridges of their coins) and i’ve heard the girls with pennies their marks may have faded but their pockets jingle with each step they take each move they make they say his tongue dripped gold and silver and bronze all over them but all he left was red mark us like cattle my ears may hold rings and not tags but i’ve got skin so fair you’d never dare believe that beneath i’m just another collection of broken blood vessels and he may be gone from the surface may be easy to remove but i still bleed (and the girls with pennies scrape at my neck one stroke at a time) mark me like property my body may be a temple but your prayers will not be heard here you say the girls don’t need their pennies we say you have no say in the way we heal our vessels may have been yours to break but they are not yours to mend and you can pretend you never knew what we went through when you decided to leave your signature on our skin but we promise when we look at you we only see red

i will not write a poem about love. it’s a tired subject, really, a matter with which i should have no concern, a channel on the telly which i flick right past since there’s usually something better on, something much more interesting. something that stings a lot less. who said anything about love, anyway? i will not write about her. her lips, her eyes, her nose, her mouth have long since faded from the screen and all that’s left is white noise, static cling, i could press my face against the glass, search for her features in the grains but no satellite could make this connection any clearer, there’s other stuff on television, anyway. i will not write about myself. this network encompasses more than just a single bed, cheap take-out boxes, empty bottles of wine; before this there was a time when the bed was made for two and i didn’t need the television on as i slept because her shallow breaths were the only lullaby necessary. if i wrote anything about myself i would have to write about her about us and go over every single episode we shared before she stopped returning. i’m tired of reruns, anyway. i will not write a poem about love. who said anything about love? there’s other stuff on television, and who likes reruns, anyway?

i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with icarus on the way he said, “hey, where are you going?” and fell before i could tell him. i said “icarus, there is a terrible beauty to this world,“ i said “icarus, i want it all to burn.” and he burned, crashed into the waves, his flames flickered and died. i swear i tried to catch the sun before he did but he stole it in his wings, betrayed the sky for a light brighter than his own, he was a shooting star that i couldn’t swallow. i said “hey, where are you going?” he told me to make a wish and fell. i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with him on the way. i said “icarus, my world is beautiful, but terrible.” i said, “icarus, i want it all to burn.” our wings melted, and as the sky rained wax, we burned.

Mari thought of the girl she loved, and knew her mother, just like her god, would not approve.  

art by Folkloor words by madameber

madameber (via madameber)

something about this place gives me goosebumps.

Skin