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What if love is made and nothing else?
asked Narcissus, leaning over the green iris of water.

Nothing else,
cried Echo from the green cochlea of the woods.

And they were both right.
And they were both lonely.

Kapka Kassabova, “And they were both right” (via rabbitinthemoon)

tsabe:

The Animated Self Portrait 

T.S Abe

systematic, if anything at all.

deeplystained:

— inflamation. fractured sternum, stretch marks on my chest where my heart swelled ten times its size trying to become the love it felt, and so suddenly lost.

— temporary blindness, burned-out irises: an image of touch, blazing hot like sunlight flooding my pupils, searing into memory what these eyes have seen and been unable to forget.

— a fragile skeleton. in some places, my bones soft like wax, and in others brittle, decalcified. my bones melting or crumbling to dust, unable to bear the weight of this body. this body, carved from stone and cement, this body too heavy, this body too hollow to be so goddamn heavy. my spine uncurling, losing shape, bending towards warmth instinctively, much in the way babies and flowers are drawn to light.

— loss of coordination. my hands twitching, trying to recall muscle memory. body at war with mind, desperate to remember, neurons misfiring. strange sensations of tenderness and pressure. distant pangs of loneliness. a gnawing in the cellar of my throat. foaming at the mouth and my jaws snapping.

—  hunger. an ache that refuses to be numbed or medicated. my tongue a bed of needles, my hips unwelcoming, my hips a bouquet of knives — self-defense, i think. i am ugly. i am unloved and unlovable. only this, unable to be anything else after you have lived and died in this flesh.

— my body: a coffin where i have foolishly buried you.

Suppose you woke

& found your shadow replaced
by a black wolf. The boy, beautiful

and gone.

—excerpt from a new poem in the latest issue of BODY Literature—a fairly new journal getting a lot of traction lately. (read it here )

socialismartnature:

Women as Background Decoration: Part 2 - Tropes vs Women in Video Games

As always, so good and on-point!

Instead of Mom, she’s going to call me Point B.
Because that way she knows that no matter what happens,
at least she can always find her way to me.
And I’m going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands,

so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say,
Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.
And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you hard, in the face,
wait for you to get back up, just so it can kick you in the stomach,

but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way
to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn’t coming,

I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape
all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small
to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And Baby, I’ll tell her, don’t keep your nose up in the air like that.
I know that trick; I’ve done it a million times.
You’re just smelling for smoke
so you can follow the trail back to a burning house,

so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire
to see if you can save him. Or else-
find the boy who lit the fire in the first place,
to see if you can change him.

But I know she will anyways.
So instead, I”ll always keep
an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby,
because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix.

Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks that chocolate can’t fix.
But that’s what the rain boots are for.
Because rain will wash away everything,
if you let it.

I want her to look at the world through the underside
of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind,
because that’s the way my mom taught me-

That there’ll be days like this.
There’ll be days like this, my mama said.
When you open your hands to catch,
and wind up with only blisters and bruises;

when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly, and
the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain,
and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment.

And those are the very days you have all the more reason
to say thank you. Because there’s nothing more beautiful
than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline,
no matter how many times it’s swept away.

You will put the wind in win(d)some, lose some.
You will put the star in starting over and over.
And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute,
be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty darn
naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar
it can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid
to stick your tongue out and taste it.

Baby, I’ll tell her, remember your mama is a worrier,
and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl
with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.
Remember that good things come in three’s. And so do bad things.

And always apologize when you’ve done something wrong.
But don’t you ever apologize for the way
your eyes refuse to stop shining;
your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing.

And when they finally hand you heartbreak,
when they slip war and hatred under your door,
and offer you handouts on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

—Sarah Kay, B (via sarahkaypoems)

YOU ARE THE KIND OF SCAR
I DO NOT WANT TO WRITE ABOUT,
I SAY IN THE FIFTH POEM I HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT YOU.

HOW COME MY WORDS FUCKING HATE YOU SO MUCH?
HOW COME THEY ARE ALWAYS SO HUNGRY FOR YOU?

HOW COME I FUCKING HATE YOU SO MUCH?
HOW COME I’M ALWAYS SO
HUNGRY FOR YOU?

d.a.s, excerpt from “Valentine’s Day”

poldberg:

While there is a lot of appropriate rage about Ferguson right now, the killing of John Crawford, III is getting less attention than it deserves. I put Shaun King’s tweets and history lesson on the matter in chronological order for easier consumption.

Links:

Autopsy and video show John Crawford shot from behind in Wal-Mart

Witness in murder of John Crawford changes story

You really should be following Shaun King on Twitter.

femalerappers:

sexidance:

M I S A N D R Y

men need not apply. hip-pop songs by female artists who are 100% done with men’s fuckery.

Willa Ford — F*ck The Men (A Toast To Men) [feat. Lady May] || Nicki Minaj — Boss Ass Bitch (Remix) || Rihanna — G4L | Beyoncé — Run the World (Girls) || Janet Jackson — Son Of A Gun (I Betcha Think This Song Is About You) [The Original Flyte Tyme Remix] (feat. Missy Elliott) || Britney Spears — Rockstar || Ke$ha — Sleazy (Explicit Version) || Madonna — Gang Bang || Lily Allen — Not Big || Cassie — Bad Bitches (feat. Ester Dean) || Mya — Ridin’ (Official Remix) [feat. Trina] || Mariah Carey — Did I Do That? || M.I.A. — Big Branch || Trina — Lame || Christina Aguilera — I Hate Boys

!!!!!!!!

Sansdiego