madgirlf

The first time you kissed me,
his ghost crawled out of my throat.
The first time you kissed me,
her memory was lodged between your teeth.
I tasted it under my tongue the entire night
and she laughed in the next state over.

Being second is its own kind of first, except worse
because you’re the first after the first which means you’re
trying on a love that breathes like a natural disaster.
I press my lips to scars that are shaped like her
and a tree falls in my backyard. I find letters
in your bedside table in her handwriting
and the sun tries to swallow the moon.

The third night we are together, we drink wine
and I say his name in my sleep. You press your face
to the white porcelain of the toilet bowl
and throw up to the sound of shattering illusions.
You find a box full of bad poems about him
in my closet and steal a lighter from a convenience store.

On the fourth morning, there is snow on the ground.
You hold my hand as my words smolder
and I kiss your shaking fingers.
To ashes we return
because burning our love
is the only thing we know.

Fortesa Latifi - burning our love
(via madgirlf)
inkskinned

Don’t look up, my love, there’s no war here. The girl on the train works with the peace corps and hanging right next to her backpack is bright pink mace.

Close your eyes when you get home, carry your mother’s best knife with you into the shower. Hold it in your shaky palm. Wait for your family to get home, keep it where you can get it, have it pointed in front of you like the prow of a ship. Cleave the air, wait for the moment when out of the closet or under the bed a man will grab you and use your empty house as an invitation, as asking for it.

Lock your car. Check the backseat before getting in. Don’t sit too long in parking lots. Don’t break down on the side of the road. Don’t get in a vehicle with people you don’t know. Don’t stand up straight, don’t hold your head up high. Don’t cry where someone could see.

Have 911 pre-dialed. Carry a pocket knife the way your brother does. He plays with his because he is a boy scout and he might have to use it. Yours is a weight and you are terrified for the day you will have to use it. Don’t panic when men stand too close to you, don’t breathe too deep, don’t look them in the eye - but don’t look weak, don’t look vulnerable, don’t show that you’re scared, but be scared.

Don’t marry him if he’s mean to his mother, if he’s mean to dogs, if he’s mean to waiters. It’s your fault if he is cruel, you should have seen it coming. Don’t kiss him if you’re drunk and not looking to follow up. Don’t give him the wrong idea. Don’t love him, it’s clingy. Don’t spurn him, it’s heartbreaking.

Let him catcall you from the safety of his four-wheel drive, don’t flip him off. Think about the girls that have died on the edge of the road. Let him trail slowly behind you so that the crunch of his tires matches the grind of your teeth. Get inside whatever building you can find. Hope the car doesn’t loop back around and follow you later. Sooner or later, one of the cars is going to loop back around and follow you later.

Don’t call yourself a feminist, you will become sick of explaining that you don’t hate men. Don’t call yourself a feminist, it’s seen as an attack. Don’t call yourself a feminist, you will hear more slurs against your person than if you had said you wanted to kill the president. Don’t call yourself a feminist, it’s dangerous to want something for yourself. Don’t call yourself a feminist. Hold fast to the idea that girls of all shapes and sizes and colors and bodies deserve the same things as everyone else, fight for it quietly - but don’t call yourself a feminist.

Don’t be like other girls, whatever that means. Don’t be one of those plastic girls. Don’t be one of those gamer girls. Don’t be one of those band geeks. Don’t be one of those hipsters. Don’t be one of those fangirls. If you can, don’t be.

Don’t look up. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. Don’t worry, my love, there’s no war here. It’s in some far-off distant country.

Nothing to see here (part one) /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
madgirlf
all these poems about people leaving and not one
about how I convinced myself to stay.
I know what you want to hear-
that I slayed the dragon and swallowed my demons
and laughed in the face of my nightmares
and lived happily ever after-
but the truth is much more ordinary.
the truth is I breathe through the pain
even on the days it whistles between my ribs
on every inhale and every exhale
and I celebrate like hell on the days it doesn’t make a sound.
Fortesa Latifi - the d word is the elephant in the room (via madgirlf)
carrotcockk
I think I fell in love with her, a little bit. Isn’t that dumb? But it was like I knew her. Like she was my oldest, dearest friend. The kind of person you can tell anything to, no matter how bad, and they’ll still love you, because they know you. I wanted to go with her. I wanted her to notice me. And then she stopped walking. Under the moon, she stopped. And looked at us. She looked at me. Maybe she was trying to tell me something; I don’t know. She probably didn’t even know I was there. But I’ll always love her. All my life.
Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 8: Worlds’ End (via feellng)