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@postcardsfromgone

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just being alive is heavy tonight, but we have enough dead friends. come over...
A K Blakemore

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āā¦and you tried to change didnāt you? closed your mouth more tried to be softer prettier less volatile, less awake but even when sleeping you could feel him travelling away from you in his dreams so what did you want to do love split his head open? you canāt make homes out of human beings someone should have already told you that and if he wants to leave then let him leave you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love.ā
ā Warsan Shire,Ā āFor Women Who Are Difficult to Loveā
āHis eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay.ā
ā Warsan Shire
āLemonadeāĀ poetryĀ bits
Intuition
I tried to make a home outta you. But doors lead to trapdoors. A stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when you go quiet? You remind me of my father, a magician. Able to exist in two places at once. In the tradition of men in my blood you come home at 3AM and lie to me. What are you hiding? The past, and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a fucking curse.
Denial
I tried to change. Closed my mouth more. Tried to be soft, prettier. Lessā¦awake.
Fasted for 60 days. Wore white. Abstained from mirrors. Abstained from sex. Slowly did not speak another word.
In that time my hair grew past my ankles. I slept on a mat on the floor. I swallowed a sword. I levitated⦠into the basement, I confessed my sins and was baptized in a river. Got on my knees and said, āAmen.ā And said I mean. I whipped my own back and asked for dominion at your feet. I threw myself into a volcano. I drank the blood and drank the wine. I sat alone and begged and bent at the waist for God. I crossed myself and thought⦠I saw the devil. I grew thickened skin on my feet. I bathedā¦in bleach and plugged my menses with pages from the Holy Book. But still inside me coiled deep was the need to know. Are you cheating? Are you cheating on me?
Anger
If this what you truly want. I can wear her skinā¦over mine. Her hair, over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph. All three of us, immortalized. You and your perfect girl.
I donāt know when love became elusive. What I know is no one I know has it. My fatherās arms around my motherās neck. Fruit too ripe to eat.
I think of lovers as trees⦠ā¦growing to and from one another. Searching for the same light. Why canāt you see me? Why canāt you see me? (Why canāt you) Why canāt you see me? Everyone else can.
Apathy
So what are you gonna say at my funeral now that youāve killed me? Here lies the body of the love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children both living and dead. Rest in peace, my true love, who I took for granted, most bomb pussy, who because of me, sleep evaded. Her shroud is loneliness. Her God was listening. Her heaven would be a love without betrayal. Ashes to ashesā¦dust to side chicks.
Emptiness
She sleeps all dayā¦dreams of you in both worlds.
Tills the blood in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc. Grief, sedated by orgasm. Orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, āI love you so much. Wrap your legs around me and pull me in, pull me in, pull me in.ā Sometimes when heād have her nipple in his mouth, sheād whisper, āOh my God.ā That, too, is a form of worship. Her hips grind pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves, whenever he pulls out.
Loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floodsā¦for the flush of bloodā¦for men who are also wolves. We blame you for the night, for the dark, for the ghosts.
Every fear⦠Every nightmareā¦anyone has ever had.
Accountability
You find the black tube inside her beauty case. Where she keeps your fatherās old prison letters. You desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. Film star, beauty. How to wear your motherās lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply the lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you. You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman. And women like her can not be contained.
Mother dearest, let me inherit the Earth. Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a God? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his head? Am I talking about your husband or your father?
Reformation
He bathes me⦠ā¦until I forget their namesā¦and faces. I ask him to look me in the eye when I comeā¦home. Why do you deny yourself heaven? Why do you consider yourself undeserving? Why are you afraid of love? You think itās not possible for someone like you. But you are the love of my lifeā¦love of my lifeā¦the love of my lifeā¦the love of my life.
Forgiveness
Baptize me⦠ā¦now that reconciliation is possible. If weāre gonna heal, let it be glorious. One thousand girls raise their arms.
Do you remember being born?
Are you thankful? Are the hips that cracked⦠ā¦the deep velvet of your mother⦠ā¦and her mother⦠ā¦and her mother? There is a curse that will be broken.
Resurrection
You are terrifying⦠ā¦and strange⦠ā¦and beautiful.
Hope
The nail technician pushes my cuticles back⦠ā¦turns my hand over, stretches the skin on my palm and says: āI see your daughters, and their daughters.ā That night in a dream the first girl emerges from a slit in my stomach. The scar heals into a smile. The man I love pulls the stitches out with his fingernails. We leave black sutures curling on the side of the bath. I wake as the second girl crawls headfirst up my throat. A flower blossoming out of the hole in my face.
Redemption
Take one pint of water, add a half pound of sugar, the juice of eight lemons⦠ā¦the zest of half lemon. Pour the water from one jug, then into the other, several times. Strain through a clean napkin.
Grandmother, the alchemist. You spun gold out of this hard life. Conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kitchen. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter. Who then passed it down to her daughter.
My grandma said, nothing real can be threatened. True love brought salvation back into me. With every tear came redemption. And my torturer became my remedy.
So weāre gonna heal, weāre gonna start again. Youāve brought the orchestra. Synchronized swimmers, you are the magician. Pull me back together again the way you cut me in half. Make the woman in doubt disappear. Pull the sorrow from between my legs like silk, knot after knot after knot. The audience applauds⦠ā¦but we canāt hear them.
Warsan Shire
I Havenāt Masturbated in Five Days for Fear of Crying
BY ELOISA AMEZCUA

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Full Version
I.Ā Ā LETTER FROM MY HEART TO MY BRAINĀ Ā Its okay to hang upside-down like a bat, to swim into the deep end of silence, to swallow every key so you canāt get out. Itās okay to hear the ocean calling your fevered name
to say your sorrow is an opera of snakes, to flirt with sharp and heartless things. Itās okay to write,Ā I deserve everything, to bow down to this rotten thing that understands you, to adore the red and ugly queen of it, to admire her calm and steady rowing.
Itās okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet, to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay without staying. Its okay to hate God today to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you. Itās okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself, to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down, itās okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed. Itās okay to brick to fuck to flame to church to crush to knife to rock to rock to rock to rock to rock and rock.
Itās okay to wave good-bye to yourself in the mirror. To write,Ā I donāt want anything. Itās okay to despise what you have inherited, to feel dead in a city of pulses. Itās okay to be the whale that never comes up for air, to love best the taste of your own blood.Ā Ā Ā II. Ā Ā LETTER FROM MY BRAIN TO MY HEARTĀ
This house is dirty, but comfortable. Behind each crooked door waits the angry weather of a forgiveless child. I cannot help but admire this horrible power of mine, how each small thing can become a death: the lost house key. A spoiled egg. A howling dog. There is no prayer or pill for this. It is a ruthless botany; I might as well be buried in the yard. I have no one to blame. Not the mother who sang to an empty cradle. Not the Dog of Spite who bit my hand, just this long-legged sorrow who trails my every joy like a dark perfume.
You have my permission not to love me; I am a cathedral of deadbolts and Iād rather burn myself down than change the locks. - Rachel McKibbens, 2010

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