"The self-portrait: Swallowing glass chips to stay interesting. Keeping my insides cut so at least something comes out when I open my mouth. Spitting up blood. Calling it poetry. Calling it a performance. Calling it everything but what it is. Self-deprecation for the sake of humility. Self-dissolution to keep them guessing. Playing the same game until it stops becoming one. Turning tricks until they become habit. Here are some jokes I’ve made so many times they’ve lost their punchline: Texting late at night, check. Bleeding dirty thoughts and regret. Throwing up and forgetting the mess. Getting thin out of pure neglect. Check. Check. Check. This isn’t a way to grow up, but what else is there? Nice house? Nice car? Nice mouth? Nice girl? Wait. Didn’t you used to be such a nice girl? (I stole that line right out of the mouth of the concerned aunt who gave me a once-over last Christmas.) Let’s try this again. Nice girl. Nice girls don’t stay out late. They don’t forget their friends. They don’t drop everything and move for the sake of adventure. Nice girls don’t lie in the middle of the street and call it therapy. They don’t know how to become ghosts in two seconds flat. Nice girl. What happened to her? Killed her. Cursed her. Kept her hungry in the basement for so long that she gave up and went home. Pushed her aside and cared for poetry, coffee, and burnt curtains instead. Nice girl. Why don’t you call her up again? Ask her where she’s been? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?"
The Self-Portrait | Lora Mathis 
It’s good fun writing like you’re insane  (via lora-mathis)
"Our pastime was punching soccer balls into craters until they laid on gravel, stagnant air. On the dust kissed doorstep we shared, Jordan left behind only footprints: something like a shadow, a hallelujah. After he left, we told each other we didn’t miss him. Still, we stole the way his feet moved intrinsically, wore our tank tops asymmetrical and slouching, licked bleeding knees, laid on asphalt until our skin was tattooed with erratic patterns. We were disjointed, askew, a t-shirt swinging from just one clothespin. Jordan, he spat fantasies we guffawed at but truly believed. Kiran spoke the language of the earth. Jay told me he loved me until he loved the game more. I pinned my hair short, learned to sew only to make trousers from calf skirts, made myself look like them until the adults started using euphemisms like comely and filling out and in bloom. We sharpened our teeth to find dull blades, taught ourselves to rip blisters from raw feet, marveled at our own ingenuity. We were angular, incipient, insouciant. We would never have believed ourselves puppets putting on a show."


white/creme/beige posts

"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something."
— Eleanor & Park, Rainbow Rowell (via dumbwhitegirl)


the first step towards confidence is not being afraid to be ugly

once you get over the fear of being unattractive and stop equating beauty with other good things in life (friends, love, happiness) it’s a lot easier to love yourself unconditionally

your job is not to sit around and be pretty and easy on everyone else’s eyes

your job is to do whatever the fuck you want and look however the fuck you want while doing it


He said,
‘You can’t be a poet, you’re too tender.
You’d never be able to stand the blows
it takes to tell another’s story.’
He paused.
‘And besides that,
you don’t have a poet’s touch.
You burn me. You scratch me.
You leave gaping holes in me whenever you look at me.
You’re not soft enough to be a poet.
The noise in your head has to be turned down first.’

I yawned. Looked out the window.
Considered tenderly pushing him out of it.
‘So, what can a mess like me be?’

'Well,' he began steadily, like this was
the introduction to some grand speech
he had practiced in the mirror,
‘Lucky for you I love you too much to let you go,
so even with your flaws,
you can be mine.’

I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.
He had his hands outstretched towards me,
waiting for me to take them and laugh with him
about my flaws all the way back to his place.

This was it. My fairytale.
Prince charming was a wolf in a secondhand suit,
licking his fangs at me in a rundown diner.
And here I realized, as I excused myself to
‘powder my nose’, and then slipped out the
side door, my worn slippers hitting the concrete
faster than ever before, that perhaps I am not a
damsel in distress, looking to be saved.
Maybe I am the villain. The obstacle.
Maybe every prince has been taught to save me from myself.
Or maybe, just maybe,
I am not a character that has been written before.
Maybe no woman has. We are too multi-faceted, too real.
We have circling wants that cannot be shoved into two hours
and have a happy ending slapped on them.
Maybe the stories are not telling enough.

Maybe it’s up to me.


I Woke Up With This Poem In My Head | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

happy international women’s day! make sure to include ALL women and not make your definition of womanhood exclusionary. anyone who identifies as female, regardless of race, biological sex, or sexuality is a woman that deserves to be celebrated. 

"you are lonely until you’re home:
bruised-mango flesh underneath your eyes,
hollowed sockets of lost time pooling in crescent moons;
i feather kiss up your arms along trails of tears,
we are time bomb bees ticking like grandfathers unwinding
with quiet news of our funerals, casket not included;
when our clocks are back to where we began:
bring me desolate lilies like an apology,
pass me wide-ruled notes crossed out like a goodbye;
when your aortas calcify once more,
explain to me its ultimate inevitability,
and hope i understand what we had was not a home."
— House [p.t]
"I searched for myself
except underneath
my own skin."
— Y.Z, A ten word story (via rustyvoices)
"Do you know
how many people
I kill in my poems?"
— Sierra DeMulder (via amyreblogs)