more often than not,
salmon mothers will
commit suicide after
giving birth so their
offspring can feed
on the tiny organisms
their decaying corpses
attract. you think you
have loved so deeply,
but what do you
know of sacrifice?

i’m sorry that you were not truly loved and that it made you cruel

Stray thoughts.

Ughhh I just got the best message from a fellow artist, and this person shared their appreciation, saying they were moved by the things I write. It got me thinking, and basically I realized that the best thing artists can do is to move each other. It’s what keeps the cycle of inspiration fresh. What would any of our work be without all the books we’ve read, movies we’ve seen, and music we’ve listened to?

It goes like this: I might listen to a song that makes me cry, and later I write the best poem I’ve ever written. An actor who follows me might read that poem and be moved to deliver their very best performance the next night. Someone watching in the crowd might be inspired by the passion of the character that actor brought to life, and paint his masterpiece, his Starry Night or Mona Lisa or Persistence of Memory. A struggling musician might see that painting on the wall of a cafe, and the fighting colors and frenzied brushstrokes might trigger a disturbance in his soul that starts as a single chord, a hazy melody, and ends in a beautiful song that inspires some poetess with a writing blog. And so on, and so on. It’s every artists duty to do their part in upholding it.

The cycle of inspiration™. Yeah, I’m coining that. 

# god
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)


mom that cigarette pack you found in my bag??? its a metaphor


Marry me

pay my college tuition?

Anonymous asked:
Good job on being a sheep and following this lame trend of tumblr writers who think they're important not liking John Green for reasons that don't actually exist.


where do i even start. here are a few reasons that actually exist why i don’t like JG’s books:

  • his writing is just ok for me. it doesn’t really move me much. he manages to pull a clever metaphor out of his butt every now and then but shit i can do that too.
  • pick a book, any book, all his characters are the same. they’re all fast-talking nerds with pointed humor. like a book full of slightly more intelligent michael cera’s; a bunch of witty sidekicks. and then there’s the wild, unconventional pixie girl that comes into their lives only to destroy everything and teach them something about life/themselves. it’s exhausting, it’s like he keeps writing about the same four or five people in different situations imo.
  • 90% percent of the text is casual banter.
  • i had absolutely no connection to the story because the characters were so unrealistic. i think his understanding of how teenagers speak and process and react is really narrow. i never saw myself in any of his characters or felt like, hey that could be me, i’m just like that!
  • for someone who’s so lauded for his love stories, i find his work often lacking in emotion and vulnerability and realness.
  • when you mention YA, he is the most celebrated author and everyone seems to forget all these female veterans of the genre who’ve been writing amazing and heartbreakingly accurate stories about the teenage experience for years and years now. i don’t know if i could be the writer that i am today without these women, they mean so much to me and a bunch of other young girls. not to mention they’re the reason why his work found such a wide audience in the first place; they built that fanbase slowly and diligently.
  • the thing i have most against JG is that unlike the women i mentioned above, whose books were healing and therapeutic for so many, i think his books hurt teenage girls more than they help, especially with the size of his audience.

are those valid enough reasons for you? i’m sorry to have offended you by voicing my dissent, but my dislike of JG is in no way an attack on anyone who does like him/his work, and i certainly don’t think i’m better than anyone for it. i don’t care what you read, i think it’s pretty cool that you’re reading in the first place. i don’t like sarah dessen and she has hella fans. literally do you, whatever floats your boat man.

and hey, you said it not me. i’m definitely a tumblr writer who thinks she’s important. that doesn’t mean anything i say matters lol. but yeah i’m important. i’m gonna do amazing things with my life so watch out for me. and even if i don’t, i’m still the shit for believing in myself enough to think that i can. PEACE i’m out, this has been too long.

Anonymous asked:
I don't want to sound ignorant or anything but why don't you like John Green/his writing? I have noticed that a lot of poets on tumblr don't and I was just curious as to why


Oh baby no you don’t sound ignorant don’t be silly!!! I don’t know why other poets don’t like him! Personally, I think his writing is extremely mediocre. For me, art, literature, poetry, it has to make me feel something. It has to affect me. It has to shake me to my bones. John Green doesn’t do that. I read his books and I shrug and think “meh” and move on. I just strongly feel like other writers have tackled the same issues as him and do it better, significantly so. Writers like Gayle Forman and Lauren Oliver and Sarra Manning. You wanna talk about first love and death and sadness? Give me something that makes me feel it. That’s not him for me.

Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.
—— Pat Barker, Regeneration (via twelvestepped)


“You will realise, that this combination of red-ochre, of green gloomed over by grey, the black streaks surrounding the contours, produce something of the sensation of anguish called ‘rouge-noir’, from which certain of my companions in misfortunes suffer.” ~ Vincent  van Gogh to Emile Bernard

I am sorry for filling you with beer and bad thoughts and then asking you why you shook. I am sorry for pinching you, for hitting you, for bruising the thin-skinned parts of you. I am sorry for the names I called you when we were fighting. You are not ugly. You are not useless. You would not be better off gone. I’m sorry for almost throwing you out into the street because my sadness was too much for me. I’m sorry for carving my fingernails into your thigh and then resenting the way people asked, “How’d that happen?” I’m sorry for plucking you and knicking your calves with drugstore razors. I’m sorry I let some people see you in the moonlight. They didn’t deserve to know the color of your hips like I do. I’m sorry for leaving you convulsing over a toilet bowl over some boy. I’m sorry I did not thank you for simply trying to take me where I wanted to go. I’m sorry I screamed at you to shrink, shrink, shrink when all you could do was grow. I’m sorry that this apology is ten years too late. I’m sorry that it will probably come again. I’m sorry that I do not treat anybody else as poorly as I have treated you. I’m sorry that I am constantly learning how to love you, when you have never once doubted how you feel about me. I’m sorry in ways this poem cannot say.
—— An Apology to My Body | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)


the goal is to love myself so much it offends other people


i found a bullet hole the size of a skittle
in my chest at the age of seven and i kept
it a secret. instead of healing like i thought
it would, the hole only widened so i walked
around quietly bleeding, flinching away when
people got too close. it grew with me until
i could fit my hands inside to feel how hollow
i’d become; first skittle, then bottlecap, dinner
plate, ferris wheel.

i didn’t know how to ask for help, couldn’t push
my voice past the tumor of silence in my throat
so i thought about dying, how everything would
finally stop hurting. something terrible had happened
when no one was looking, and i knew i wasn’t born
that way, i knew i hadn’t always been leaking, but
someone should have been there for me. pain
was the gun and somebody pulled the trigger. 

maybe they didn’t want to be alone. maybe i was
standing in the way of their misery. ever since, i’ve
been trying to fill the emptiness with other things:
food, sex, art, drugs but the more i try, the more
incomplete i feel. i’m spitting the bullet into my palm
after twelve years, wondering how something
so small could rip me wide open. there are many
ways to disappear; being swallowed by 
depression is only one of them. 

Chew your way into a new world.
Munch leaves. Molt. Rest. Molt
again. Self-reinvention is everything.
Spin many nests. Cultivate stinging
bristles. Don’t get sentimental
about your discarded skins. Grow
quickly. Develop a yen for nettles.
Alternate crumpling and climbing. Rely
on your antennae. Sequester poisons
in your body for use at a later date.
When threatened, emit foul odors
in self-defense. Behave cryptically
to confuse predators: change colors, spit,
or feign death. If all else fails, taste terrible.
—— Amy Gerstler, Advice From a Caterpillar (via deeplystained)


there are some places that can never be left;
the uncharted sea of your bed, where our naked
bodies floated like continents. i miss making maps,
studying your geography. we called ourselves
cartographers once. teeth against flesh, a full set
of my dental records on your neck. your hands
twisting into the black forests of my hair. i miss the
suspense, the way your lips would linger over my
aorta like you didn’t know if you’d kiss or kill me.