Tag: poetry

my girl

warsanshire:

The neighborhood boys have grown taller

than their absent fathers.

My girl use to be one of the boys,

throat a gun tossed in to a river

fist fight for a mouth

bag of ice for a father.

Then her body grew soft where she did not want it soft

grew full, grew heavy, grew ripe

if the boys see then the boys will become hungry.

My girl avoids mirrors

binds her breasts like a secret

buries the dead in between her legs

every month bleeds like she is a wound

calls out the names of the dead like lottery numbers

and all the names sound like her own.

My girl picks her father from a list of fatherless rappers,

measures her thighs in her bedroom

is on a diet, forever

is a red balloon stolen from a party

deflating in a corner.

Her first kiss, a boy who does not like girls

unless they are face down on a mattress. 

My girl has a blank cd for a father,

the back seat of car for a mother.

Once in a basement when the music was on

and she thought no one was looking

and she could not help herself

and the body wanted to move

and the body it did move

and the body became almost sound,

she was wet from the bass in her stomach.

Everyone wanted to be like her,

that splinter in the oversized shirt.

My girl is the knife in the family portrait

the miscarriage at the sleepover

pink bubblegum expanding from a whores lips

riding the carousel with a nose bleed

glitter in a coffin

confetti in the barrel of a gun,

Is fun.

My girl is holy, is sacred, is pure

is clean, is loved, is whole, is beautiful

is worthy, is okay, is alone, is just fine

just the way you are girl

just the way you look babe

with that dirty mouth

and those hands, wherever they have been

and that sadness, whatever caused it

and that anger, wherever it came from

and that fear, who ever brought it

you are my girl, girl, you are me.

My dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.

Charles Bukowski (via nadashannon)

I once dated a writer and

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them –
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful
because
they’re busy
remembering
the important things.

Witch-Wife

daughtersofair:

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ‘tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

-Edna St. Millay