‘You can’t be a poet, you’re too tender.
You’d never be able to stand the blows
it takes to tell another’s story.’
‘And besides that,
you don’t have a poet’s touch.
You burn me. You scratch me.
You leave gaping holes in me whenever you look at me.
You’re not soft enough to be a poet.
The noise in your head has to be turned down first.’
I yawned. Looked out the window.
Considered tenderly pushing him out of it.
‘So, what can a mess like me be?’
'Well,' he began steadily, like this was
the introduction to some grand speech
he had practiced in the mirror,
‘Lucky for you I love you too much to let you go,
so even with your flaws,
you can be mine.’
I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.
He had his hands outstretched towards me,
waiting for me to take them and laugh with him
about my flaws all the way back to his place.
This was it. My fairytale.
Prince charming was a wolf in a secondhand suit,
licking his fangs at me in a rundown diner.
And here I realized, as I excused myself to
‘powder my nose’, and then slipped out the
side door, my worn slippers hitting the concrete
faster than ever before, that perhaps I am not a
damsel in distress, looking to be saved.
Maybe I am the villain. The obstacle.
Maybe every prince has been taught to save me from myself.
Or maybe, just maybe,
I am not a character that has been written before.
Maybe no woman has. We are too multi-faceted, too real.
We have circling wants that cannot be shoved into two hours
and have a happy ending slapped on them.
Maybe the stories are not telling enough.
Maybe it’s up to me.
I Woke Up With This Poem In My Head | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
happy international women’s day! make sure to include ALL women and not make your definition of womanhood exclusionary. anyone who identifies as female, regardless of race, biological sex, or sexuality is a woman that deserves to be celebrated.
“Sometimes I want to
jump into the water
and swim until
I’ve reached a place where I
can let go of my burdens
and be free.
Even if that place
is under the sea.”—Under The Sea | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
“I was born into a line of women too afraid to leave.
My mother sleeps with her eyes open in his bed
and wills herself not to cry to strangers
when they offer her a glass of wine.
I have seen her pack her suitcase in her head
as she nervously wipes her stained red teeth,
always snapping out of it and straightening her skirt
before she makes it to the door.
Even in her dreams, she is terrified of him
not having a meal to come home to.
I did as I was taught and gave
“I love you”s like apologies,
staying even when I began mixing up
“growing up” and “giving up”
never even noticing my tongue had
slipped until I was corrected.
Five pages of my journal began with
“reasons to leave” and still,
I did not tell myself to run,
just continued to scribble things
I needed to change about myself,
saying that my shaking bones did not
excuse my shortcomings,
that I needed to be more for you.
I wish someone had told me: in the struggle to love another better,
do not forget to love yourself.
You are more than your failed relationships.
Your lovers do not shiver when you touch them
because they can feel ghosts beneath your skin.
When he talks to you about “forever”,
do not be afraid to say “no.”
You come from a line of women who
forgot what “no” tasted like,
who kept their feet out the window
but felt too guilty that someone would have to
clean up their mess to ever jump.
But you are not your mother
and do not need to put makeup on
before he wakes up
out of fear that he will see desire to be more.
You do not have to open your legs to him in sleep
because your grandmother taught you to
never turn down somebody who says
You were born on a battlefield
with white crosses in the spaces where
love took a bullet to the chest,
but you are more than a wounded soldier.
The moon is sleeping in your stomach,
waiting to remind you that
you can glow without
somebody’s hands inside of you.
I wonder if anyone ever told you:
just because he says he can
does not mean
you owe him yourself.”—
I Wonder If Anyone Told You | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
“Do not try to be pretty. You weren’t meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don’t let anyone ever simplify you to just “pretty.””—Things I Wish My Mother Had Taught Me | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)
“I tried to write you a poem
but all that came out was
a bushel of flowers.
I’m sorry that the only
metaphor I can think of
to describe how I feel
about you is:
the thought of you
makes my insides bloom,
but a field of wildflowers
has grown in my throat
since the first time I
touched you.”—The Period of Flowering | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
I'm really in love with a boy and he seems interested too but he's the kind of guy who always makes out and fucks with random girls at parties (and I think that's all he wants from me too) and I am a romantic and don't want to be just one of them. I know I need to get him out of my head cause It could never work but how when he keeps flirting with me and being cute? Give me strength!!! I'm really sad :(
If you know that he flirts with a lot of people, be skeptical when he flirts with you. I know it’s hard to ignore somebody you’re attracted to when they give you attention, but if you really think it’s attention directed at your crotch, don’t fall for it. I’m not sure what his intentions are, but if you get the feeling that he doesn’t want the emotional connection you crave, then move on. When he flirts with you, don’t allow yourself to get stuck in a daydream of him caring for you. Separate yourself from the situation and see him as somebody who as an ulterior motive. You shouldn’t feel sad about somebody flirting with you! If it’s somebody who genuinely likes you-both physically and emotionally- it should just feel easy.
“There’s nothing wrong with reading a book you love over and over. When you do, the words get inside you, become a part of you, in a way that words in a book you’ve read only once can’t.”—Gail Carson Levine, Writing Magic: Creating Stories the Fly. (via bookporn)
“Enlightenment is a destructive process. It
has nothing to do with becoming better or being happier. Enlightenment is the
crumbling away of untruth. It’s seeing
through the facade of pretence. It’s the
complete eradication of everything we
imagined to be true.”— Adyashanti (via crypto-vox)
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
In the family of things.”—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese” (via commovente)
"You are always too intense, frightening in the way you want him, unashamed and sacrificial, he tells you that no man can live up to the one who lives in your head. and you tried to change, didn’t you? closed your mouth more. tried to be softer prettier less volatile, less awake.”
“The mind of a writer can be a truly terrifying thing. Isolated, neurotic, caffeine addled, crippled by procrastination, consumed by feelings of panic, self-loathing and soul-crushing inadequacy… and that’s on a good day.”—Robert De Niro (via maxkirin)
“Here is a list of reasons we should have quit each other long before we did:
Because, while driving in the car with you, I looked at bridges and wondered how big of a splash I would make if I hit the water below them. Because you told me I was gross when I spit on the page that said “stain this.” Because you never questioned what I was thinking about when I went silent for hours in the thrift store. Because I didn’t think you’d care that I was wishing it was big enough for me to get permanently lost in.
Because it had been so long since I was happy for a long period of time that I truly believed I was born to be sad. Because I made a list of things that made me sad and all of them were things you told me about myself. Because my breaking point was making a list of reasons I should leave and reasons I should stay, even though I already knew which side would be longer. Because I wrote, in clear sober letters, that I didn’t think kisses could get me by anymore.
Because you would have left for breakfast without me if I had done what I wanted and taken a picture of the flowers blooming on your tree first, even though we did not have a reservation and were not meeting anybody. Because you got mad at me for sulking over that, even though it still hurts. Because you made a face when I asked if I could come on your trip, then changed your mind and said yes, but never once included me in the plans, even though you made them in front of me. Because I poured everything I had into writing you a letter when you were sad and I can’t remember if you even thanked me for it. Because, when you broke up with me, you brought up me not getting you a birthday gift the year before, saying that my plan to take you on a trip had not failed, I had just forgotten the date. ( But I hadn’t.)
Because whenever I get depressed, I hear your voice in my head listing all of the things about me that will never be good enough. Because you roared at me (that is the only way I can describe it, your teeth were bared and I swear your eyes grew hot and red right then) and I cannot shake the image of me afterwards, stumbling away, blinded by tears, and feeling so incredibly lonely that my bones still shake just thinking about it.
Because, by the end, I felt like I should hate myself to have something in common with you. Because I have to resist pounding my pillow and screaming that you were supposed to be one of the good ones. Because I accepted you telling me that I always victimize myself and began to hate the tears in my eyes and the stupid way I’d sit in the corner, picking at scabs and trying so hard to win you back each time we fought. Because I stabbed a painting of mine in a fit of self-hate and because it had been a gift for you, you got mad and took it as a sign that I did not love you, instead of asking me what was wrong. Because when I desperately asked you to please just hide the bottle of pills in the bathroom from me, I acted like I was asking a stranger for a favor, not like I was confessing that I could not stop thinking about walking the thirty steps to the bathroom, turning on the shower, and letting steam fill the room until somebody realized I had collapsed on the floor long ago.”—You Are An Illness I Barely Beat | Lora Mathis
“The rape joke is that you were eight.
The rape joke is that at the time,
you didn’t know people had sex to express love.
The rape joke is that the only other person
who’d seen you naked was your mom.
The rape joke is that he called you ‘beautiful’ first.
The rape joke is that he held your hands together
and told you to ‘try harder’ when you struggled.
The rape joke is that you believed him
when he told you were overreacting.
The rape joke is that your grandma
called him a nice boy and asked him to stay for dinner.
The rape joke is that he winked at you
when you apologized to your parents for not coming
downstairs the first time you were called.
The rape joke is that his friends
high-fived him for “getting some.”
The rape joke is that you still don’t feel like
you’ve regrown the pieces he stole.
The rape joke is that he was conceived when his
dad slapped himself into his snoring mother.
The rape joke is that her friends told her
she was lucky someone wanted her.
The rape joke is that each year in the United States,
32,000 other women’s bellies
ripen with life against their will.
The rape joke is that he never learned
to touch without scarring.
The rape joke is that your classmate thinks
‘have you seen what asses look like in yoga pants?’
is an argument.
The rape joke is your new boyfriend kissing
you and telling you he ‘raped’ his math test.
The rape joke is that ‘Why are girls so scared of rape? Y’all should feel pride that a guy risked his life in jail just to fuck you’
is a popular Tweet right now.
The rape joke is that you wake up to
the memory of him laughing,
“now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
The rape joke is that it’s been twelve years and
you still quiver when someone touches you.
The rape joke is that he hasn’t stopped laughing.
The rape joke is that you forgot how to.”—The Rape Joke | Lora Mathis Inspired by this. (via lora-mathis)
awwwwwwwwww the tags said “i’m crying” i never wanna make you cry, but i’m flattered to have affected you so deeply
“That’s what you like in a girl: cute and sad, with enough disorders that you could count them to fall asleep. The kind you can show off at parties as the latest broken thing you fixed. Where will you hang your awards for loving someone who can’t walk in a straight line without being supported? Is there room next to your collection of glasses you shattered by holding them too tightly? The blood on your hands does not make you a martyr. Do not curse when your hammers do nothing but scar her. Do not use your words to remind her that everybody else would have left by now. If she could speak, she would tell you: you think it’s beautiful to love somebody as light as me but you don’t know how heavy I had to be to become this empty.”—Lora Mathis, Your Type of Woman (via seulray)
my best poems were written after a friend pissed me off