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There is sun and stillness

I am scrubbed shiny with

A rose garden on my

Pulse points

You can wallpaper

A haunted house

Plaster over the holes

In the walls, you can

Burn sage and candles

The ghosts won't always

Leave, crucifixes and holy

Water are hopeless against

Apathy, disinterest leaves me

Disintegrated, Mary Oliver's

Herons hold no comfort in

Half-finished books, I cannot

Read beauty when I feel

Like a monster, I am feral

And feckless, swallowed by

The cracks in my smile

#loooooooove this omg

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you ever be painting or drawing or writing with a random playlist on and a song comes on and you think to yourself yuck, I need to change this.. and then by the time you actually tear yourself away from your work to change it the song is over or are you normal ???

#literally thinking the whole time #I don’t like this I need to change it #but also like after I finish this bit #and then another bit #and then oh fuck I listened to the entire thing #Spotify gonna think I like this shit

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Five Short Stories by Trans Women of Color

“The Girls and the Apple.” Jasmine Kabale Moore. The Coalition

“Waiting Room,” Jamie Berrout

Love and Comets, Gillian Ybabez

Coconut, Gabrielle Bellot. Small Axe Journal

Bonus: Watch Ryka Aoki read her story “To the New World”

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rb with your major/degree, your sign and your favorite season

#licensed practical nurse #Libra #fall

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#this looks cute unless you know geese are cunts #and this person won’t be allowed in their house #until the geese leave #fucking geese #look at that one in the front #absolute salt

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and when he came back. all coherent and breathing i realized i couldn’t hear him and when i shook his hand i felt weak and yes, i am weak, but i always thought i’d be stronger than him and today i learned that i am not and today there is a hole in my lung and each breath is a fight and oh, lord, i am so tired of fighting. my hands shake when i pray and i think that might mean something but we’re all too preoccupied with the man who’s alive again and i can’t blame anyone for this considering he’s kind again and there’s a laugh that comes from his mouth that feels a kind type of thunder and, maybe just because somethings loud doesn’t mean it should scare me, but i’ve been feeling a bit more skittish lately, i should get my hearing checked

#okay what ???? #this is amazing

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#sexual assault tw #this is heavy I know #poetry #fermentingferns #poem #nosebleedclub #writerscreed #change #inkstay #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #writeblr #my writing #lit #trauma

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blackout poem made from pg.389 of ‘the divine comedy’ by Dante Alighieri

#poetry #blackoutpoem #poets on tumblr #poem #the divine comedy #dante alighieri #writeblr

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“The claw / Of the magnolia, / Drunk on its own scents, / Asks nothing of life.”

— Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems; ‘Paralytic’

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“We bury things so deep we no longer remember there was anything to bury. Our bodies remember. Our neurotic states remember. But we don’t.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

#!!!

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“I wish I wasn’t such a dreamer. I’ve ruined this life for myself.”

— N.M. Sanchez

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“Men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at. This determines not only most relations between men and women but also the relation of women to themselves. The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object – and most particularly an object of vision: a sight.”

— John Berger on Male and Female Presence, from “Ways of Seeing”

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I don’t know why I haven’t posted this here yet, but I’m officially a published poet y’all !! I’m not even gonna attempt to describe how excited I am.

The anthology is called “Sunday Mornings at the River” and there are so many incredible poets featured, I’m so honored. If you want to grab yourself a copy it’s available on Amazon, link below 🤍

#poetry #sundaymorningsattheriver #poetry anthology #poets on tumblr #writeblr #books #love

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#poetry #fermentingferns #poem #nosebleedclub #writerscreed #poets on tumblr

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never not thinking about the end of poetry by ada limón

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anyway, *daydreams*

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WHY WEREN’T YOU AT MILF PRACTICE