you are perfect porcelain

"Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman."

- Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own (via observando)


The first man to name me “goddess”
was twenty-one and drunk on rum.
Breath heavy with lust and booze, he told me
that most nights he carved poems into the walls trying to write me alive in the room with him,
so when the light hit the scrapes just right,
he could catch his breath for a minute.
I was just fifteen, all ivory thighs and wild eyes,
but still he held my spine between his teeth and spun words off his tongue like thread—
they wrapped around me in a throat-crushing tangle,
but when my limbs began to struggle,
I convinced myself it was some sort of embrace.
One night he called me saying,
“Babygirl, you gotta open your window and stare out at that moon. Isn’t it beautiful, baby? Look at the sky holding up that massive thing all on its own. Damn, you’re just like that, you know?
You’re my sky.”
My frail bones were cracking under the weight of the rock he sickly called devotion—
instead of shattering, I let him become a solar eclipse
and never looked back at him again.

The second boy came to me on his knees at seventeen:
a past lover replaced with steel skin and iron irises.
I’ve never heard a voice as cold as his was, begging for my touch and dripping false sincerity off the edges of his lips.
He cried, “I didn’t know I needed you until you were gone. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m just fucked up in the head.
Maybe you can soothe the ache in my soul if you kiss it just right with those words of yours.
You’ve always known just what to say.”
Each whisper echoed with a heavy blow that rung in my ears
and bruised my bones so deeply that I still feel them in the marrow.
As he spoke, I could feel those phantom-fingers that once fit so well between my thighs
beginning to curl around my ankles,
so I stepped on them.

The third man held nineteen years in his fists and
told me I wrote like words were poison,
as if I needed to pull them out of my gut as quickly as I could scratch them down, just so I wouldn’t choke.
Now I was sixteen and slinking around in ink-black stockings,
lips red and bloody from tearing the hearts of men out of their sleeves with my teeth.
He claimed I was wild like nothing he’d seen before.
“You’re wise for your age,” he declared. “You remind me of a Burroughs novel; I just can’t seem to understand you.”
I tried to unwrap my heart and serve it to him,
all raw and brutal,
but he returned it untouched, replying, “Stay quiet, now, darling, I don’t want to hear it just now. It’ll spoil it all, you see.”
To him I was a character, a fetishized fantasy,
and he’d cover his ears if I ever tried to speak
outside of a poem.

See, men only seem to stumble upon me in the dark,
as they grasp and fumble for something to swallow to convince their starving hearts
that they’re worth beating.
They hear my words as a siren call and drink me down in heavy doses.
Then, they crush me between their fingers and grind the dust into the ground with their heels so they can keep trudging along,
toting their tragedy behind them.
In their swollen eyes, I am only a poetic panacea.
But god, in the time that it’s taken for my rubble to reform into this shape they call a body,
I have grown thunderstorms in my skin and collected tornadoes under my tongue.
Yes, I’ve been told many times by those who try to solve me
that I exist only so that I may be destroyed
for the sake of others,
but instead, I have become a forest fire,
and I will burn myself alive to tear down
the thicket in my path until
I’m standing in the wake of my
destruction as merely


- "I Am Not A Cure" by Abigail Staub (via guiseofgentlewords)

hey…peep this poem I wrote this morning….

(via guiseofgentlewords)

(via guiseofgentlewords)

Earlier today someone asked Molly if her and I are dating

Tonight we are going on a literal date to the library and a park we are official dweebs

"With you, intimacy colours my voice. Even ‘hello’ sounds like ‘come here’."

- Warsan Shire (via beautilation)

(Source: thefreenomad, via i-dont-want-to-regret)

"She likes to sleep. It makes her forget about it."



Circus for a psycho

(via sleepless-december)

(Source: meetaclassybitch, via shh-smile-darling)

"I look at you, and I’m home. There is no one else in this world that I feel both comfortable and nervous around, but still feel good about myself. Everyone is either one or the other, and I don’t let people see me the way you do."

- I probably love you too much (c.b)

(Source: deadly--sins, via elephant-houses)

"A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called “The Road Less Traveled”, describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road less traveled was peaceful but quite lonely, and he was probably a bit nervous as he went along, because if anything happened on the road less traveled, the other travelers would be on the road more frequently traveled and so couldn’t hear him as he cried for help. Sure enough, that poet is dead."

- Lemony Snicket, The Slippery Slope (via observando)


1. One of his family members told him not to be with a girl who showed so much skin. We were in her bed not a week later. He smiled at me and I smiled to myself. We fell in love

2. He was older. Had curls like mine and said he didn’t want alcohol in my bloodstream anymore, even though his lips had the same intoxicating affect on me and my cheeks seemed to be stained rose red around him. He was all hands and confidence and I was clumsy and dizzy. A bit later I was sick with “kissing disease.” We never spoke again.

3. We spent the night under the stars. No one has ever seen me so raw. Oh god, I wish someone would have told me intimacy doesn’t fix broken people. I tried, I tried. But it didn’t work and neither did fucking. There’s a scar on the middle finger of his left hand of my initial and a heart carved into his skin. I still wonder if the girls after me hate it as much as I did.

4. It was dark, our hands didn’t fit together right and I could barely feel the metal in his lip. He laughed nervously and told me I talk about my ex quite a bit and I pretended not to notice the hurt in his voice. I left my hair clip in his pocket. I didn’t reply when he texted me two days later asking why I didn’t love him.

5. He got high all the time and he had a cute smile. It was messy and neither of us wanted to be seen with each other; I knew he had someone else on his mind. I could taste it. I wonder if he knew I did, too.

6. He helped me with my biology homework and he drove a nice car. He told me my lips were perfect, kissed me in every seat of that damn infinity, but never once outside of it. We stopped talking when he left for university but we still send each other happy birthday messages and the occasional “Hey, it’s been a while. How are you?” I heard he’s getting rid of that car. I hope he doesn’t

7. He had dimples, a raspy voice, and loved nature. We talked about books and dreams and animals and how pretty the sky is around 7 pm in California. We snuck into a new movie theater and held each other’s faces. We could’ve been great together, but our timing was always so, so wrong.

3. We were both different people than before and I guess you could say I relapsed. But that’s okay. He’s all the way across the country now and my heart isn’t heavy anymore.



8 Boys I Kissed, (technically 7)

inspired by porn4smartgirls 

(via v-lustful)