SKIRT STEAK GIRLS

The only girl in a handful of backseat boys, I sit
shotgun without calling it. The song pounding through
the radio says Bitch every Bitch other Bitch word.

One boy assures me I am not like other girls.
Out of habit, I thank him for the compliment.

I listen to them speak of women like menus;

medium-rare
lace skirt
trimmed steak.

I cross my legs and nearly fold my voice
into a teal blue Tiffany’s box.

This is the part where I prove that I am chill.
I can hang, guys. Who says feminists are a buzzkill?

As we turn the corner, there is a gaggle of young
women. The driver of the car I am in leans out the window and spits

How much?

Eyes wide as dinner plates, they scurry away like shot
pool balls, as I have done so many times.

The whole van hoots, fist-bumps, hollers. There are not enough seats
for both a woman and the joke to fit comfortably in the car.

I keep my rant about feminism and rape culture
as a ponytail holder around my wrist.

In a fish tank of predators, I wonder if I, too, am a predator
by association.

When I get the courage to say something,
I am two weeks late and encouraged by Bacardi.

I start by assuring him that he is a Good Person,
which is why I’m telling him this in the first place.

I have to make this matter to him. I have to bring up
his sister, his mother, his girlfriend-
I have to make this accessible to him.

It is the dilemma of the woman who wishes to inform
the sexist, politely.

It is the dilemma of the woman
who wishes to be heard-

Let us give you this reality check
with a spoonful of sugar.

Let us make this easier for you to hear
than it is for us to live. ❞
SKIRT STEAK GIRLS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.

Li-Young Lee, from This Hour and What is Dead (via mooneyedandglowing)

August Sext:

b—side:

I am small next to your open window,
a river throwing herself over mountains,
falling white, trying to snowflake
into your mouth.
And there is you, the bedside treeroot
growing under me until I dry up,
this central Florida drought,
my parched tongue.

- 08.26.14

Via: b--side

How to Drive a Girl Wild in Bed:

b—side:

1. Kiss her mouth, click your teeth together to the rhythm of a train wreck. 

2. Clip off your fingernails, force feed them into the skin of her thighs. 

3. When she swallows her tongue, replace it with yours. 

4. Snap her toothpick spine, roll her over, use her to clean out the parts of you worth hating.

5. When you’re done with her, machine wash in cold water, lay out to dry. 

- 08.04.14

Via: b--side
❝ every time you inhale
you are creating an entire universe
that has never existed before.
every time you exhale
you are destroying that universe. ❞
– Sara Woods, “Rotting Apple Sutra,” from Wolf Doctors (via bostonpoetryslam)

viperslang:

iii
sometimes we kiss as though our mouths were deboning the softest rabbits for a civet. hunger tastes like damp grass and juniper berries. your hands turn volar; a copperhead sidle by the lit match of a liquored fuse; we came too soon to the end of that forked bridge, its hinges folded into the laziness of a boa constrictor before the nudge of a prong. above, the faint venus hung as an amulet. something blistered formless in a heap of human bones collected as cues. lilac smoke rucked up against the chartreuse. 
we watched the breeze stomp its feet over that burial as it chew up the last marigold. we lay flat on our backs by an empty well’s palm dressing our bare backs in lichen the color of bread mold.
we fucked like we were erasing all echoes of past tense from our mutual grammar; discover me through my darkness as though you are an astronomer au fait and i am the hidden masterpiece: a constellation of scars scattering the geometry of this night.

from “Dulce Muerte”, Scherezade Siobhan©

❝ Know this:
I live beast days. I am a water hour.
At night my eyelids droop like forest and sky.
My love knows few words:
I like it in your blood. ❞
– Gottfried Benn, Threat  (via vapourise)
❝ Did the tea-time of your soul
Make you long for wilder days
Did you never let Jack Kerouac
Wash over you in waves? ❞
Richard Thompson (via misswallflower)

fleurdulys:

The Kiss - Louis Picard

Source: fleurdulys Via: 27x05

werewolf—



there are many words for transformation / metamorphosis
metaphor / medication / go to sleep / beside the man you love
& wake up next to a dog / maybe the moon brought it out of him
hound hungry for blood / maybe it’s your fault / or maybe
it was there inside him / howling all along

Sam Sax, Bestiary
❝ You are nothing without me. I created you from spit and red dust. And I can snuff you between my finger and thumb if I want to. Blow you to kingdom come. You’re just a smudge of paint I chose to birth on canvas. And when I made you over, you were no longer a part of her, you were all mine. The landscape of your body taut as a drum. The heart beneath that hide thrumming and thrumming. Not an inch did I give back. ❞
Sandra Cisneros, from “Never Marry a Mexican,” Woman Hollering Creek (via lifeinpoetry)

arpista:

alex-ivy:

you were so many pieces this morning
you must have exploded in your sleep

i had to fish you from my hair
spoon you from the day old mug
of still tea on the nightstand
you were everywhere

i even had to empty that decorative
glass dish of river stones and votives
to recollect you piece by piece

i’m sure to hear about it when i get home
river stones go for twelve dollars a pound
and candle wax doesn’t grow on trees
you will say

Via: pouvoires

Because there are some people who touch you as if you are

beautiful, and at times that is the most unbearable thing that you can feel. And there are some people who

are so much that you can’t look at them without feeling as if every nerve is pushing out of your body to try to

touch his synapses, and you can’t tell if your body is betraying your heart or your heart is betraying your

skin.

❝ Sometimes it’s enough just to say
their names like a rosary, ordinary names
linked by nothing but the fact
that they belong to men who loved you. ❞
Kim Addonizio (via amanda-oaks)
(n.b.)