Listening to Hole and writing and remembering how to be honest. I only want the raw and the sensitive; I need my words to undress me. I want to feel it burrow in and open up my chest when you sing. 

I’ve got a sunken heaven waiting to wake the fuck up.

Listening to Brandon sing and play guitar and just smiling because he’s lovely and living feels more than okay.
I like the people I’m around and I like our conversations and the ordinary places we go to and the music that fills our apartment. I like the small pieces of art nailed to the wall; scavenged from dumpsters and sidewalks and telephone poles. Sitting together on our second-hand couch and watching Pulp Fiction, nearly empty pizza boxes on the floor. I’m content, but I’d rather go to bed and feel your skin against mine and catch my breath between moans I try to smother with my face half buried in the blankets.

One of my poems in a new feminist zine :)

You can find it here and here!

Always remember to be nice, though you might forget your manners when his dick is in your mouth, you can’t say no at this point so just try to be polite. 

But do you really really want to let your pretty lips say no, baby no, not again, I only asked for a friend not these shiny pearl violations. But if he could see too much skin why are you complaining that he put his hand on it?

You’re just too sweet, girl, stop crying, you were too quiet you should have screamed. He knew your reputation; how you can’t hold your liquor, keep your shirt on or your legs shut. No one weeps for the wicked, honey, nobody sympathizes with a slut. The defense attorney will tell the judge you like to fuck, an ex-boyfriend’ll confess you enjoy when it gets a little rough. So when he goes too far it’s not his fault, it’s just too hard to understand the importance of trust. 

You can wear that dress if you want to
You can flirt if you want to
You can kiss if you want to
Just remember to be polite when you’re asking for it

honesty must be a hell of a threat to someone with such a self-loathing ghost in their eyes. dingy evenings spent warming your lungs with beer and whiskey; how can one’s redeemable nature be cleansed so easily? you’ll always find fountains of new faces swooning for the low, ravaged souls of alcoholics spitting out excuses, excuses, excuses and handing out good intentions with less aggression. it seems like any shore you wash up on becomes a harbor for all those sad, sentimental cynics. and they say you’ve got bad blood on your hands, but we’re not the villains, those know where the blood is. it’s just something you learn. if you get close enough, you’ll destroy each other. ‘cause hell is not other people, it’s old friends. i don’t have to validate my fucking feelings for anyone; you have all your bitterness and i have my self-respect. i’m not staying quiet about the things i didn’t have the heart to say then. we’ve all been worn down from the sorrows and joy only our own beaten hearts could understand. with velvet bones and bruised fists you made a bed of weathered grief. but it’s only made you sore, scratching happiness from dreams. it’s a wonder how anyone sleeps soundly on their own, when even lovers lay among this loneliness. and i honestly hope that one day you’ll learn how to be a good person.

but it’s more likely you’ll drink yourself to death.

I just want to drink red wine and write about the things that remind me of you and the friends I never meant to hollow out. But we can’t keep washing up on the same shore with berry-stained mouths and tangled curls. The poems we share through the cracks in our teeth become static when our words are all slurred. I want to meet people who blush more easily than I do, who don’t feel lame singing along to folk songs on road trips. People with rugged spirits and hazardous grins; who also hate the way their hands look, and kiss each other with lips all weathered and thin. I whisper my sadnesses only once I know you’re asleep, with flustered cheeks and soft ragged breathing, tucking my affections into the warmth of your skin.

This is where soul meets body, where both entwine and dawn luminescent, reborn and transformed into their native element which is love. We ascend into ourselves venerable and victorious.

This is where I abandon hesitation for ecstasy, surrendering to the soft paroxysms of pleasure trembling my bones. We are a consonance of souls, a collision of stardust, igniting a glorious fervor to dwell in all the skies that crown our rhapsody of spirits.

You’re in ruins and I am not afraid. And if I prayed I would beg their heavens that I am not deceiving myself. We’re all a gamble and cast the most precious remnants of ourselves into an abyss. I am not falling but rising within my affection for you; soaked to the marrow with radiance, I am willing to walk blind for this. I rise as I surrender; you are the ethereal tremors resounding through the newly impassioned grace of my limbs, and the volumes of sunlight illuminating the hollow valleys of my body.

I’m ridding the remnants of your touch. The breeze can feel my skin weeping and your face is losing color. I’m reclaiming the warmth and the tender grace of my ankles and the dust behind my knees. You belong to your sadness and it’s been awhile since I could say I was yours, and I’ll be happy to say I’m not yours. But I’m still here lingering in hungry sighs, could you tell me how anything else would do? I’m without you. I’m a liar and this isn’t one of my best. And I’m wondering, does she touch your fickle heart when she touches your skin, how filthy, how unfaithful you’ve been? Someday we won’t know each other, I’ll let you know how it feels to be loved the way one should love another, and I’ll hope you’re more than content. How good are you at keeping secrets, darling? ’Cause I’m not the best.