my jealousy, it makes me sweat.
it tosses covers off my body and causes me to curl up into a sphere curved over on itself.
inside i’m burning, hot and wet on the outside, my back warm to the touch, i slouch down a bit more, i keep reading, i keep talking as a knot of envy ignites in my limbs, making the corners of my knees and elbows damp.
every other accomplishment makes my forehead spring a leak, a smile makes me mop my brow, i don’t know what i’ll do with myself.
maybe i’ll burst into flame when i see that i’ll never have it, each utterance of ‘privilege’ ‘top 1%’ just makes my thighs stick together, passions and pretty lives will leave dark spots on my clothes, a river runs through me every time you silently show me ‘i made it”
all that’s left will be a puddle and the shadow of a happy fufilled face.
my jealousy, it makes me sweat.
rly i encourage all the girls of colour, esp black girls, to invade creative spaces that are occupied by white women. the exclusion of girls of colour in creative spaces is a conscious decision, dont walk around believing that it’s just a coincidence. if u see only white girls on a staff page, know there’s a reason behind that. and dont let that shit thrive. let ppl kno u r alive.
it’s been a whole summer since my grandmother has passed.
i haven’t written anything but that tiny blurb since. i guess when she died, so did i inside. i don’t have it inside me to even scribble out small words anymore. i miss her everyday, i think about her constantly so much that i feel as though my life has come to a grinding halt. nobody understands me and how i’m feeling, and it hurts but i understand. i just can’t believe that the change that i desperately wanted came, but in the worst possible way.
i am a person who looks forward to things. it pushes me, it drives me. i like knowing that something is going to happen.
but now, i just lay in my bed in pajamas with the curtains closed and the air conditioner on, my room is a darkened coffin. i guess i’m trying to die too, so that i could be with her, sitting on front porches and and couches talking about nothing.
your settling in sounds
the wet click of your mouth
the scrunch and slide on the covers
the soft sounds of a yawn
a tiny deep breath
curved against the wall
i watch over you in the pitch black
i smell your hair
keep you from cold.
i always toss and turn when
you sleep in my bed and i don’t know why.
Once the time goes, it’s gone
And no wisdom can retrieve it.
Grave thoughts bear the mind down.
And the body has no choice but to follow.
It comes down to yes or no, and pain’s in back
of every choice that turns to act.
What I find in the night, other than darkness.
In the darkness, other than light.
Solace. What a lovely word.
Solstice. What a lovely word.
— Sylvia Plath (via seelifethroughpinkglasses)
Me to myself: grow up
for anyone who needs this tonight
- Anonymous said:are your band mates ever embarrassed by you because your hair is weird and you wear dresses on stage? maybe they want someone prettier as the face of the band... ?
Do people just put a few words in a generator and send the results to me? How is this real, I’m gorgeous lol
rly i encourage all the girls of colour, esp black girls, to invade creative spaces that are occupied by white women. the...
- You can be in an interracial relationship and still be racist.
- “When I asked John Ashbery, Is it OK to do this or that in a poem, he told me I could do anything I wanted.”