The teenage queen, the loaded gun...

so you did not so much fall in love as love tipped her chrome-crowned head into your lap, and the mechanical whirr of her hair as it slipped into place softened into something that sat still in your chest, rough and quiet and full, and                you let it.

To those who are losing a lot of their will to create in the wake of President Tyrant: Don’t let him and his orcs win. People NEED your books, stories, poems, paintings, jewelry, dolls, knitting, tapestries, vases, weaving, dishes, every creation that comes from your hands. Every creation is a punch back at the haters and the heartless. Every word puts hope or thought or dreams or solace or fire into those who read it. You become a different voice from the bullyraggers and the foolish; your ideals, wishes and convictions reach your audience, whether they are reading Dr. Seuss or James Joyce. You convey food for hope and imagination whether you realize it or not, and the most innocuous-seeming work gives those who partake of it something to go on with. Keep soldiering on. Comedian or philosopher, baker or glassblower, writer of tomes or fan fiction, you’re needed now more than ever.

It’s taking me too long to learn the best way to love myself, but I’ll keep trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    tiring                    trying                    trying                    trying                    trying                    tiring                    trying                    trying                    tiring                    trying                    tiring

Vera Rubin, did you ever wonder if dark matter weren’t made of women like you? Quietly doing 90% of the work of holding together the universe? Keeping it all from flying apart, just like a family matriarch?

you would suppose that a heart does not break quite like an old

to get rid of myself / layer by layer by layer by(e)

I wish someone had warned me about the quiet boys with soft eyes and hands, because they break your heart as easily as the tall, dark strangers the poets always talk about.

girl: my brother just died and the murderer is one of these five