lifeinthearctic:

he follows me around like a starving stray dog.
5.27.13

everything i learned about lying i learned
from your boyfriend in my bed at 4 am and
he never spoke a word to you about it because
i fucked him so hard he couldn’t make a sound.
i bet he calls you by your name. he calls me hell,
he calls me christ, he calls me from payphones.

miguu:

what i never
learned
from my mother
was that
just because someone desires you
does
not mean they value you.
desire is the kind of thing that
eats you
and
leaves you starving.

cchugg:

carrierudzinski:

When he finally confesses
he has been sleeping with Her
since he met my parents,
 
I stop saying his name.
I understand the importance
of existing inside of myself –
the nightmare of being alive.
When he finally evaporates
 
off my skin,
he leaves behind Her scent:
an unscratchable itch.
A gift I gnaw at every night.
Her name is a newborn
the family keeps passing around;
she won’t stop growing. At my birthday, 
someone exclaims how she’s learning
to wear her body
like a crown.

I carve her name into benches.
Bake her eyelashes into my breakfast.
Find her hair in my throat.
 
Discover she loves everything
I love.
 
Her mouth is a garden of lies.
I sleep at the foot of Her bed.
 
His bed. The bed
I found her hair in –
wrapped up in the comforter –
a long, blonde noose –
something I threw aside
when he wasn’t looking –
the first lie I told myself. 


© Carrie Rudzinski 2012

This is so good, it makes my stomach sick.

blankslate:

i tried to write about your eyes
but i ran out of cliches

i tried to say you plainly
but there wasn’t enough truth

whoever invented this language
didn’t anticipate you

caitymarie:

my bones are creaking
remembering when we were
more than ash and dust

Forgive me forgive me my heart is my own
And not to be given for any man’s frown
Yet would I not keep it for ever alone.

Forgive me forgive me I thought that I loved
My fancy betrayed me my heart was unmoved
My fancy too often has carelessly roved.

Forgive me forgive me for here where I stand
There is no friend beside me no lover at hand
No footstep but mine in my desert of sand.

Stevie Smith, 1937

34043:

It hurt too much. He was too rough.
It barely felt like anything. He was too gentle.
He said if I didn’t come it would hurt his pride.
He kissed like he was acting. It was insincere.
He kissed like the sea. It was too sincere.
He said if I didn’t come we’d just have to try it again.
It was getting…

34043:

I wonder if you’ve ever tried to memorize my body like I’ve memorized your being.
The birthmark on the back of my calf, have you seen it? The
Rogue freckle on my heel-
Do you know it
Like I know the single silver scar near your shoulder,
The dark constellations that sing across your spine,
The eyebrow you can never raise,
The softness in your face that appears right before I fall asleep?

She did not want to burn
down the house because
she was in love with fire.

It was never that.
It was because of the closed
doors, the straight walls

that stopped any long breathing,
that told her, when she tried
to laugh, to stop.

And the chairs, the chairs
slim and delicate,
lined against the edge

of a room, lap sideways
to lap, no one facing.
Even the windows looking out

felt too slick and hard
to her fingers, nothing open
about them. How did she know

that what she saw
outside was really there?
That the hedges were any more

yielding than a locked door?
And the stones rose in walls so high,
so thick, she had never found
the way out.
                         In the first delicate
lickings of flame, the lovely

leafings of orange, yellow,
the prickings and twinings
of the snapping noises,

she could hear voices,
the click of new tongues,
the lap of loud breathing,

and she knew
that as the roar began,
with its great wind, blackness,

red over brightest red, flames
that took over the sky
she knew she did love it

now, it was all
she had ever loved,
this sweet terror

that raced its own body
together with hers
over the terraces, the gardens,

out to the orchards, the hills,
its blazing voice
finally loud enough,

that the only way it would ever stop
would be when it had spoken
to everything it could find,

and there would be,
for the first time,
nothing left, nothing

left to say.

-Wendy Barker 

(Source: wendybarker.net)