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I’m mad about stuff and someone told me, “Write a poem, that seems to help you when you’re ready to break bones.”

But poetry is supposed to be pretty or eviscerating or something you stir into your tea to watch it form galaxies. We teach poetry to my second graders as “big ideas in small packages.”

The big idea: my mother is sitting on the couch, coughing hard. She has dark circles under her eyes and tiny lilywhite hands, calloused fingertips and palms. She has raised us my putting herself into the ground and telling the soil to break her down so we may grow bold, she has bled for us, has forgotten to spend money on herself, has raised us with the words, “You can be anything, just be true to yourself.” Her family lives like lonely freckles, spread over the map where she cannot see them. Two years ago, she buried her best friend. Three years ago, she was in a hospital for chemotherapy, holding our hands when we got scared. Four years ago she turned fifty, had a back that always hurt her, had a stable job she hated but picked up a second minimum-wage one, just to pay the bills. This is my mother tonight, lying with her feet stretched out and falling asleep to bad tv shows, this is the woman who is more warrior than anyone I have ever known, who is kinder than I could ever be, who gave up her whole life so that her children may have their every desire, this is the woman and you put her in a small package.

This is the small package: fat.

You spat at her feet while she held the door open for you. I wonder if you could taste the radiation of her breast cancer treatment, the hours we spent wondering if she was going to make it. I wonder if you knew how many times she held a new dress in her hands but didn’t buy it because she’d rather spend money on her kids. I wonder if you could see the responsibilities she keeps stacked in perfect rows inside of her, I wonder if you could smell the funerals.

This is not poetry. This is how you get a twenty-year-old pacifist to go from weak-willed to absolute rabid, my fists balled at my side while you strutted past us. And you probably went home and felt good about how you had acted, how your actions were some kind of wake-up call for a woman you have never met. This is not poetry because I threatened to hunt you down and tear out every poorly-dyed hair on your head, I said I would slash your tires and steal your wallet, I felt my temper flare and my throat dry up -

and my mother just smiled and said, “Forgive her, my love.”

-I would wish terrible things on you, but I was raised better. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)


"Even my boyfriend of over a year ignores me”

4.17.2014: I don’t even hate what you did to me.

“‘It’s going to pass.’ It sucks how this applies to the good things in life.”

Look around your college classroom, spot the virgins.

See, this seems like a game until you skip over the girl with a short skirt and hair in front of her eyes because you heard last summer that she slept with like nineteen guys. You can’t see her hands, but they’re under the table, pulling a rosary through her fingers as she tries to wash the sin off her. She’s only ever kissed three people in her whole life and they’re all girls. She turned down the wrong guy and he told everyone she’s “a whore.” The label “slut” stuck to the bottom of her shoe and swallowed her up.

But that quiet girl who is always reading probably never touched someone else’s penis, you figure, because you don’t know that she goes home and strips down and pulls on tight black leather, you don’t know she’s got a set of whips that could make any set of knees quiver, you don’t know because she’s proud of what she does but she’s not stupid enough to let anyone know about it. She’s sexy, just not here, not where people judge.

See, the truth is: you have no idea who has lost their virginity, because it doesn’t change you. It doesn’t give you some kind of glow or superpower or stamp on your forehead. You know the feeling of waking up on your birthday and thinking “I don’t feel any older whatsoever”? That’s what maybe they’re all so afraid of you finding out: sex doesn’t change you. Sex doesn’t make you an animal, sex doesn’t suddenly make your relationship a million times more stable or intimate or romantic - it can’t fix what’s broken, although it can make the pain go away for a bit. Sex doesn’t really occur with eighty tea lights and a thick white rug. Sex is ugly and loud and frequently awkward, sex is excellent and breathtaking and when you wake up the next morning, you’re the exact same person. There’s not some magical connection with the person in bed beside you. Believe it or not, pregnancy isn’t some kind of punishment - but practice safe sex, get tested, don’t spread your germs around. They want to tell you, “Sex can ruin you” and I’ve heard that a lot as a little girl, that some boy would join me under my sheets and then dump me four days after, used, unhappy.

But I figured out that I’m not a fucking toy. Letting someone have sex with me is not letting them “use” me, because I’m not an object. My father said the issue lay in the fact “Men are insecure and need to know that they’re the best you ever had,” but I think that’s a steaming crock of absolute-wrong and if I didn’t tell the people I’m with how many others I’d slept beside, there would be literally no way for them to know my number, because I don’t rust, I don’t wear out, I don’t get bruised. I’m not a wilting fruit, I don’t go rotten.

But here’s the thing: some people connect sex and emotion. I don’t personally because I am probably secretly an ice storm in disguise, but I still respect my partner’s desires. If they’re the type to want love and sex to coincide, I let them. I don’t make fun, I don’t pull one-night-stands or friends-with-benefits, because it’s not their “reputation” I’m afraid for: it’s their heart I’m defending.

Here’s the thing: Instead of worrying about people’s “purity” and how it defines them as a person, worry instead about how you can protect other people’s emotions.

Because here’s the thing: look around your room and spot the virgins. Look harder. You can’t tell. Sex doesn’t alter people, it doesn’t make them act in a certain way nor dress in a certain manner. Sex and personality have nothing to do with each other. There’s a reason that virginity doesn’t show on someone’s face: because having sex doesn’t cause you to change.

-"I lost my virginity to a boy I didn’t even love…" /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via flur-de-lur)




how do beliebers still even exist

How do dumbasses still exist?

thats literally the exact same question

(via lubricates)