blue girls burn fast

“[…] the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness,”

Why do the young poets  all write about Persephone? 

“I should have known but the water never told me. It sealed its blue lips after swallowing you, it licked my ankles like a dog. I won’t lie and say the ocean begged for forgiveness; it gleams unchanged in the sun. Some things are so big they take and take and remain exactly the same size.”

Her hair dark reeds                        or river snakes.                                             Her wet mouth the rupture between your name                        & what

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.”

“I dare you to burn holes into me; I will bleed love and kindness from all of them, and you will drown in the things you tried to end in me.”

“In the age of loss there is the dream of loss in which, of course, I am alive at the center—”

Yes,

A monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.

You gotta dance to kill sometimes. Dance until it’s just you and the people you love and the life you’ve always wanted.

And I loved him          as I eventually came to                       love all artifacts of violence done to me.

I dream too much, and I don’t write enough, and I’m trying to find God everywhere.

You know why voices die in throats and trees struggle in silence: the deepest trauma cannot spare a sound.

I loved you the way the moon loves the sun, and maybe that was the problem. When one of us was up, the other was down, and no matter how brightly I wanted to shine, your glare was enough to put me in my place. You see, just like the moon feared the sun, I too, was afraid you would burn me.