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@tarnishedsilvers
when i was eight or ten or twelve, walking down carpet-spattered halls i had a knockoff walkman and i had one cd. i was not old enough to understand what she sang, but i knew i loved the cover and the key. and god, did i feel it. i understood why it was on the radio. as it skipped in my ears, my heartbeat followed.
listening to avril lavigne in 2002, mw
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2 min poem
i've never wanted to be anything more than a bruise - lingering. when you are careless, i will come. i will pulse against your skin, an ache to press with wandering fingers. shadows wait on flesh like silhouettes, my voice in your mind like a flame. i hope you wince at my name i hope you seek out the pain i hope you never heal.
mw
if you lined up all the water bottles they should go around the planet one hundred and ninety times in a year all that refuse; all that waste holding hands like the boys i've kissed
mw
i know too many girls who think they need to be a lighthouse, guiding sailors away from the rocks that have always been there along the coast. i know too many girls who turn themselves to lifeboats - they plunge into the water when their light wasn't enough and they search through ice and ocean for wrecked, reckless men. do not guard the sea in the night. scavenge the beach in the morning for shells and for treasure and for bones. there are so, so many; to waste them would be a shame.
mw
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i met a boy who loved that he was mean; he loved his own sandpaper edges we shared our poetry he told me he tried to die; he was found in a tree, bleeding, three miles from home i told him i wanted to wash myself away like weak watercolors he laughed: feelings arenât real if they sound like art before theyâve stopped hurting.
when Iâm ready to be clean Iâll burn down.
Danez Smith, from âPoem Where I Be a House, Hence, You Live in Meâ (via myshoesuntied)
for the last six months i havenât been human iâve been half-dry nail polish and half-empty bottles of tequila (the fancy kind, almost at the top of the shelf) i want so badly to be a masterpiece but iâm always just unfinished
wrap her up in shaking hands press tight; press tighter be a spool of ribbon, barbed wire gift wrap leave sharp kisses in her skin
this is how you prove that you love her with construction signs that say NO ENTRY and CONDEMNED this is the only way she will understand
you do not know how to let things go
birds are made of fragile stuff : hollow bones feathers like breath even their claws are small they are sharp but they will snap and when you hold them too close they will shatter
you love too much; you love like a curse like broken mirrors she never used to be superstitious shards of glass can change a woman
she isnât a prize, she knows this you know this but you want her gilded and she feels metal pour down her cheek, her neck, she lifts her arms in fear or victory and is frozen in gold
put her on your mantel; this is only how you love her tell her that she is beautiful tell her she is your baby your sweet, your bauble she is yours, yours, yours
it is too hard to untangle from you from your love and your traps when you rip paper from staples it leaves tears she was only ever worth anything whole and now she is partial part of her lies nestled in your heart and it is locked and rusted shut
where would she go? to a pawn shop perhaps to let herself be appraised she is not secondhand goods,
not yet
she is loved in your shaking hands like a present, or a bird
I feel like the word shatter.
Margaret Atwood, The Handmaidâs Tale (via pigmenting)
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we wanted so badly to be hobnailed boots and studs on sleeves dreaming of sharp spikes where mouths used to be and turning ourselves into weapons which is how i should have known
i, at least
have always been fragile easily ruined lace designed with rips and gashes predisposed to self-destruction god, it looks like art but it feels like being naked in a hailstorm nothing but radio static and the whisper of tulle to pass the time
when they talk about learning to love yourself again they like to leave out the most important parts âone step at a time,â they coo âallow yourself to feel alive.â those are the nice words, the t-shirt words. nobody says, âyou wrote poetry about how youâd die for him for her for anyone else so that they wouldnât have to feel a speck of pain and youâre learning that youâre worth more than that.â they neglect to mention that there will come a day when you think, âi cannot help them, i must help myself,â and it will feel like every knife you ever pressed into your skin like mirrors shattering your reflection in thousands of shards of glass screaming, âYOU ARE SELFISH, WE WERE RIGHT ALL ALONGâ the road will be difficult and there will be pitfalls and they all will look like you you have spent so long craving emptiness and void to be full and rosy and alive seems false and unfair when they talk about learning to love yourself again donât let them leave out the important things.
itâs so much easier to say romeo and juliet were young and stupid, they didnât know than to say why would two kids kill themselves at thirteen and sixteen unless theyâd been thinking about it before? how did julietâs parents deal with the fact that if they had listened to her, if they had loved her, maybe they wouldnât have had to leave her in a mausoleum dustier than her bedroom but just as cold and just as dead she married herself to an idea and a boy who said she was the sun drunk in the night maybe she was tired of living in the dark
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"i'm not like other boys," he swears "you've never had anyone like me," there are too many stars for a night as dark as this one. there should be fog and lightning and thunderclouds warning me but there is only sweat and tears and a boy whispering,Â
"you're lucky, you know, you're the biggest girl i've ever wanted."
i am 130 pounds and i stop eating i stop sleeping i stop seeing and i try to stop breathing
every time someone says my name i startle away, i respond with, "i'm sorry," i write, "i shouldn't have worn that dress, i shouldn't have felt pretty, i shouldn't have gone out, i shouldn't have smiled, i shouldn't i shouldn't i shouldn't
i should have known better."
there are spiders in your veins crawling inside your blood and weaving webs behind your eyes and you start to thank them you think, this is so much better than his scorpion touch
we go to the department store perfume counter the saleswoman says, "what a lovely couple." i do not let him touch me. i buy him eighty dollar cologne he kisses my cheek and says,
"this is why you're beautiful."
i tell my mom in a car why we stopped seeing each other why i'm scared of seatbelts and boys with chipped teeth and she says,Â
"boys will be boys."
they will be boys and they will rip you apart like you're fruit and they're starving like you belong to them and you owe them a taste
and when you tell a boy, when i tell a boy he will say, "but not all boys are like that.
i'm not like other boys. you've never had anyone like me."
A Primer for the Small Weird Loves by Richard Siken
slightlydrunk:
1
The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in this swimming pool because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. Youâre in the eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didnât do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesnât matter anymore. 2 A dark-haired man in a rented bungalow is licking the whiskey from the back of your wrist. He feels nothing, keeps a knife in his pocket, peels an apple right in front of you while you tramp around a mustard-colored room in your underwear drinking Dutch beer from a green bottle. After everything that was going to happen has happened you ask only for the cab fare home and realize you could have asked for more because he couldnât care less, either way. 3 The man on top of you is teaching you how to hate, sees you as a piece of real estate, just another fallow field lying underneath him like a sacrifice. Heâs turning your back into a table so he doesnât have to eat off the floor, so he can get comfortable, pressing against you until he fits, until heâs made a place for himself inside you. The clock ticks from five to six. Kissing degenerates into biting. So you get a kidney punch, a little blood in your urine. It isnât over yet, itâs just begun. 4 Says to himself The boy is no good. The boy is just no good. but he takes you in his arms and pushes your flesh around to see if you could ever be ugly to him. You, the now familiar whipping boy, but youâre beautiful, he can feel the dogs licking his heart. Who gets the whip and who gets the hoops of flame? He hits you and he hits you and he hits you. Desire driving his hands right into your body. Hush, my sweet. These tornados are for you. You wanted to think of yourself as someone who did these kinds of things. You wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way. 5 The green-eyed boy in the powder-blue t-shirt standing next to you in the supermarket recoils as if hit, repeatedly, by a lot of men, as if he has a history of it. This is not your problem. You have your own body to deal with. The lamp by the bed is broken. You are feeling things heâs no longer in touch with. And everyone is speaking softly, so as not to wake one another. The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together. Steam rises from every cup at every table at once. Things happen all the time, things happen every minute that have nothing to do with us. 6 So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes before knowledge, and you want it dirty. And no one can ever figure out what you want, and you wonât tell them, and you realize the one person in the world who loves you isnât the one you thought it would be, and you donât trust him to love you in a way you would enjoy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way is filthy. And the boy who loves you the wrong way keeps weakening. You thought if you handed over your body heâd do something interesting. 7 The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him you will want to get inside him, and ruin him, but he doesnât listen. You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart or you pin them down with your body and pretend theyâre yours. So, you kiss him, and he doesnât move, he doesnât pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasnât moved, heâs frozen, and youâve kissed him, and heâll never forgive you, and maybe now heâll never leave you alone.
