when my lungs begin to burn, i am not sure who to thank the cigarette, the match or my well-intentioned breath
She stood before a wall of painted petals wilting, waving, downward in harsh primary halos around her head like oil raining, like a shower of paper paint-chips and to me, “what do you think it means?” and to her, “stay standing where you are, nothing can hurt you, you are under a canopy of plaster, made to look like the hand of God.”
you can buy my book here. you don’t have to. but you can. it would make me smile.
an earthquake thunderstruck with fever-pink knees right there in the middle of my legs and a twister when i hike my skirt shaky palms, your starving daughter has right there on the ends of her arms count orange peels, bury them in the dirt under my fingernails. count cigarettes not by counting cigarettes. count the teeth you lose instead
You seem curious, old man, so this is a breakdown. Old man, these are my hips. Yes, they sway and tumble and hit my thighs with an arch. Old man, these are my wrists. And yes, they’re small and they bend under my skin. Old man, these are my breasts. Yes, they sit and bounce above my heart. These are my ribs, old man. The doctors had to crack a couple of them to make my organs fit...
The trouble with the tide is that she’s always waiting for the moon. The trouble with gravity is that he’s always just sort of leaving – grasping for the thighs of thick clouds. The trouble with love is that it’s always been hanging around, aware of itself before you even began to bloom.
Ladies and Gentlemen: I present to you...
thefoxbones: lilysofthefield: Inkstains and Heartbeats: The Collective By: Tumblr Writing Community A collection of creativity. Featuring 231 pieces and 232 beautiful people. Paperback: $12.70 Hardcover: $20.45 Just ordered my Hardcover copy! These next 6-8 business days cannot go by fast enough! A million thanks to Lily for putting this together. It’s going to be such an honor...
my body is a waiting bag of blood (to burst, monthly) a brown bag, leftovers some bones and some guts and some pretty pink hues tumbling through soft machinery it is topped with rusty hairs capped with cartilage shells wrapped in un-sunned meat and i was taught (by my mother, by her mother, by the mothers who are teachers) to love it, perfume it, paint it make it a galaxy for boys to ride upon...
promises. for every line in which i have previously promised myself, the world, and the page, “never will i write of you again” i will swallow one shot, of “whatever you’ve got, make it cheap, keep it cold” and by the time, drunk as i am, that i fasten my tips to the keyboard, i’ll make that promise again
strip. he frequented strip joints his friends and him and their crush-proof cigarette boxes, their money sliced into ones friday nights after steak dinners or saturdays after shots of whiskey-lime and the next morning on top of cotton sheets, bloody mary’s and blood-shot eye-whites, “chandeliers”, he’d say “and gold, like a palace. everything caked in gold”...
aquietjoy asked: I miss you, how do I keep missing you?
I search but I find nothing fragrant in your skin. Nothing compelling in the scent of your hair. Still, I am drawn to both with a sharp inhale and an ecstasy-exhale as if you were made from the milk of coconuts and chocolate powdered sugars, hazelnut and big nectar-bloated citrus fruits fallen ripe from vines and trees. It is only you and a slight hint of soap or detergent unaltered by flowers...
My dresses and my skirts are structured around my hips like cotton floral bone-hugs. But the twist of my words cannot be structured. Ivy-whirl wrapping flesh-kisses around major muscles. Veins tied off into electric-blue bundles. No direction of flow, only the incessant need to string words together like salted popcorn onto a string of gold with shaking sticky fingers and ‘I hope you...
Author’s Note: I’ve recently fallen on the aggravation of the inability to pen anything I truly feel is worth keeping. To give my delete key a bit of a rest, I decided to dig through some old high school and college writing. This may end up being the only think I type up or there may be others to follow. Either way, the following is untitled (a trend that I guess goes as far back as...
i love them. gutter queens, the poison suckers with yellow eyes and nicotine skin i love them the closeted monsters sunken eyes, oozing ick from their tear ducts and clawing towards jupiter up there glowing and clinging to her moons i love them, the deteriorated bone joints of dilapidated dancers and junkies bathing in puddle muck with stinging red prison tattoos and ink running down milk-thighs,...
Your eyes, chocolate eyes, take up the whole room. Your lashes bust the windows. Your eyes inside the coffee shop walls. The smell of sugar and the trail of cinnamon swirling along the counter top. A powder map of New York and long dusty dirt roads that lead to me. And my paper cup filled with hot water and tea. And my lungs. And your eyes, chocolate eyes, take up all of the air. They...
in the end. i count calories and read gorgeous fairy tales, slowly caving in
You’ve really only ever been good at two things as far as I could tell. Engineering and breaking my heart. I don’t know too much about the prior even though I spend my eight-to-five’s fingering through blueprints with papercut tips and mailing sealed proposals to small-city big-wigs with dollar amounts printed on them that seem something of a fairy tale exaggeration. And I’ve always...
I keep ragged cedar and devil’s shoestring in my pockets for luck. I gnaw on cinnamon bark. I read fairy tales under sycamore shade and my veins tangle with the thick roots and grow muddied and stiff. My hair hugs the low-hanging branches and burns copper under the sun and glitters like crystal specks with the rain. If my bones were wooden I’d burn them in an iron stove to keep my skin from...
silent snow, a haiku. the sullen silence of snowfall is both eerie and peaceful at once