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
It’s funny. I can forgive people who put me through hell and back, but those who hurt my mom, or my closest friends, are another story.
Growing up, I couldn’t help but notice how my mom and I were the black sheep of the family. In a group where no one went to college, everyone got married and started having babies between the ages of eighteen and twenty, my mom got a degree and had me as a single parent because screw fucked-up relationships. That didn’t sit well with everyone else, apparently.
Because my mom is a nurse, they called her up begging her to go care for their sick, older relatives, whenever someone was dying. I got to know my great-uncles and aunts on their deathbeds, but we were never invited to the countless weddings, birthday parties, and reunions of our younger, not-dying family.
Now, over the past year or so, my family is all of a sudden trying to be buddy-buddy with my mom. I think it’s out of guilt, now that she lost her job, and now that all of their older relatives, for whom they never cared when they were alive and sick, are dead.
My mom goes to visit them all of the time, and always picks up when they call her on the phone. Me? I tell them she’s not available, and hang up.
You don’t get to treat someone like dirt for decades and then ask to be friends. She cleaned up the literal shit of your dying relatives for years while you called to say thank-you from parties to which she’d never be invited because you weren’t comfortable bringing the spinster maid with the bastard child to the festivities.
My last SO broke up with me over email the night before his college graduation, which I’d been invited to. After a five-year relationship. He lied in said email because he didn’t have the guts to admit that he was inviting the girl he’d most likely been cheating on me with to said graduation. I found out through a family member’s rub-it-in-your-facebook status, sent him an email confronting him about it, and never got a reply. One of my best friends confronted him to his face about it, and he never denied it; he actually admitted that he’d done wrong and owed me an apology, but I never got that apology, and I probably never will.
I drowned my sorrows from that in a recurring fling with whom I’d shared a mutual this-isn’t-serious-I’m-actually-just-trying-to-get-over-my-last-big-relationship bond for several years. This person then got back with the last-big-relationship, defriended me from fbook, and when I texted to ask why, never replied.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a friend request from said fling. This same pattern has happened before, and I’ve always accepted it. This time, I laughed and denied it. Several weeks later, I got the same request again. I messaged, asking why I should accept given all that’s happened. No reply, and the request withdrawn.
Why is it so difficult to be honest? Why is it so difficult to admit things for what they are? Is it because then you’d have to admit to yourself that you have no courage or semblance of nobility whatsoever?
I’ve said this before and I’ll point it out again -
Menstruation is caused by change in hormonal levels to stop the creation of a uterine lining and encourage the body to flush the lining out. The body does this by lowering estrogen levels and raising testosterone.
Or, to put it more plainly “That time of the month” is when female hormones most closely resemble male hormones. So if (cis) women aren’t suited to office at “That time of the month” then (cis) men are NEVER suited to office.
If you are a dude and don’t dig the ladies around you at their time of the month, just think! That is you all of the time.
And, on a final note, post-menopausal (cis) women are the most hormonally stable of all human demographics. They have fewer hormonal fluctuations of anyone, meaning older women like Hilary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren would theoretically be among the least likely candidates to make an irrational decision due to hormonal fluctuations, and if we were basing our leadership decisions on hormone levels, then only women over fifty should ever be allowed to hold office.”
when the teacher keep teaching after the bell has already rang
When you little shits didn’t shut the fuck up so I can do my fucking job and now we both have to stay longer
I’ve never seen a post sympathize with a teacher
There is hope yet for this world
So, let's say that you're at school and you see a guy you know. I mean, you guys talk every once in a while and he's pretty cool, but you're not like friends or anything. You just talk to him every once in a while.
What's his name?
I don't know. Frank?
Okay, fine. His name is Will. Okay?
I don't think it really suits him, but okay.
...So anyway, you're at school during lunchtime and you see Will. So, you notice Will's not eating anything. That's when you realize that Will has no lunch, no money for lunch, and no way of getting either. He's just sitting there like he normally would. He's not acting any differently and he's not asking anyone for anything. Not money, not a fry, not even a salt packet, but you know he's gotta be hungry. So, what do you do?
Do I have any money?
Yeah. You have enough for you and another meal.
Duh, I buy him lunch.
Okay, cool. So, like you said, you buy him lunch. You buy your lunch and you buy his lunch and you go over and hand it to him. And, he says, "Wow. You know, that's really nice of you, but I wasn't gonna ask anyone for lunch. I was probably just gonna wait until I got home to eat." And, then you say--
Nah, it's cool.
Exactly. You say, "Nah, it's cool. I'm just being nice. It's a gift." And, Will says, "You know, that's awesome. You're really nice, bro." And, after that, you guys start hanging out. You guys are like really good buds. You are always hanging out and laughing and just having a good time. So, you guys are friends for a few months, and it's tons of fun. Then, one day, you go up to Will and you say, "Hey, Will, you know, I've been thinking, and I kinda want that five bucks."
What five bucks?
Hold on. I'm getting there. So, Will says, "What five bucks?" To which, you reply, "Well, we've been hanging out for a long time and it's been really fun, but like, I've done a lot of really nice things for you. Like, I'm always nice to you and I always listen and do things you wanna do, so I was thinking that because I've been so nice, you should pay me back that five bucks I spent to get your lunch right before we started really hanging out."
What? Why would I--
I'm not done yet. So, then Will looks kinda hurt and he says, "But I thought you were just being nice. I thought that was just a gift." So, you say, "Whether or not it was a gift, don't you think you kinda owe me that five bucks since I've been so nice to you?" And, Will says, "No. I don't think I owe you that!" And you get mad, so you say, "Well, I think that you do, so I think you're being really shitty and stuck up about this and I feel like I've been completely wronged."
Oh, my God. That's so fucked up of me. I would never do that to Will. Will was nice. We were buds. That's way screwed.
I know, right? Hey, just wondering, have you ever heard of this fictional place called "The Friendzone?"
Well, yeah, but...