Their shirts matched. Thats what she remembered. Their shirts, both a light, summer denim blue with white buttons, were nearly identical. His sleeves were pushed right above his elbow, and hers were…
I took a break from essays and poetry for a night. Wrote a bit of prose. That’s about it.
"Land of The Bloody Unknown"- The Middle East
Cheers to the folks who can tell a wicked brilliant story. The kind that seem to pour from the very pages of your hidden journal, the corners of your padlocked soul.
Made loud through chords and harmonies.
Well the wine you drink is stained deep in your shirt
And just like the sin in my soul
It is never ever ever ever coming out
While the stars bear down from their throne
And the old southern cross is shown
And it points down the sad road home
"have you considered that maybe i am not pleasant?
maybe i wear lipstick so that
you will see my pretty pink mouth
wrapping around a coffee cup lid
and be distracted enough not to notice
that i am intelligent and powerful;
maybe i draw my brows into high arches
so you will look at my unimpressed skepticism
and overlook my spiteful glare
as a trick of my silly, girlish routine.
maybe i wear my heels so high and thin
so that i grasp your attention with the sway of my hips
as i listen to the click-clack-click against the floor
and know that if you should try to overpower me
i walk on sharpened knives.
maybe when i laugh at your worthless jokes
i am really baring my fangs
waiting patiently for the day
that i sink them into your neck.
i am not made of porcelain pleasantries;
you will find that these things are my armor
to keep you at a distance
so you do not step on me and shatter
my fragile control.
i am not a husk — i am not wilting.
i am turning my head
so that the fire blazing through my eyes
does not catch on the accelerant of your sweaty palms
and burn your bones to dust.
i am not your pretty girl;
i am a fury, a faerie, a phoenix —
a forest of werewolves and wendigos
that will carve out your chest
so that the next time i paint my pretty pink lips
i will taste the copper tang of your dying breaths."
— R.K., I Am The Wolf Only Barely Contained (via thenemeton)
When he kisses me, my mouth turns to salt.
Like the women in Ancient Rome, this is my currency.
This is how I pay him.
There are cabinets in our house filled with nothing but cracked eggs,
fat yellow yolk dripping like candle wax down the wooden insides.
When he places his palms against my…
Nothing is as it has been
And I miss your face like hell
And I guess it’s just as well
But I miss your face like hell
(Source: mrcleanrightbehindyou, via boyhoodbraveryyy)
just because he touched you,
it doesn’t mean he’s your captain.
he could never have sailed on your ocean,
he doesn’t know the way.
you are tall, and proud, and strong.
your heart is deeper than the sea
and he was not equipped to dive.
you are beautiful.
and every shipwreck, every sunken piece of…