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Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across: Poems by Mary Lambert

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happyheidi

by Molly Buford

lizormianillustration

whatever was left, that was ours for a while.

sunrise - louise glück

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deviika

Fyodor Dostoyevsky // Alanis Morissette

louisegluck

Sylvia Plath, from Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices [ID in alt text]

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sweatermuppet

[sitting completely still in my own bed] this world is gutting me like a fish

joytri

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Sylvia Plath, from Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices [ID in alt text]

louisegluck

Louise Glück, from “Blue Rotunda.” [ID in alt text]

tamsoj

Robert Bly, "Depression," from A Mind Apart: Poems of Melancholy, Madness, and Addiction

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flowerytale

Daphne du Maurier, from The Parasites

flowerytale

Joan Didion, from The Year of Magical Thinking

technofinch

we're all so lucky that a cat can be orange. that's such an incredible color for a cat to be

oldsoulnewmoon

lungs.

I don’t want to know how the moon glistens under this earth or how the sky chases each star to wink towards the heavens or how the universe helps us collide with our fate I just want to know how your breath will detail my skin

sweatermuppet

from abell 2218 by eric gamalinda, published in amigo warfare: poems

[Text ID: I use my body to find love. I eat all the wrong foods. I believe what I see with my own two eyes. Fear eats me. I have to look for a job. I can sprint faster than sound. I burn forever, I have no end. /End ID]

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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

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beguines

Amy Hempel, "Cloudland", Sing to It

girlfictions

joan didion, “on self-respect”

theweefreewomen

image text: It is the phenomenon sometimes called alienation from self. In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the spectre of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that one’s sanity becomes an object of speculation among one’s acquaintances. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectation of others, to give us back to ourselves - there lies the great, the singular power power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home. end text.

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