i dreamt your tongue
bent me into an ampersand
and that we broke life down
into hours and moments instead
and i wasn’t the one pulling the trigger, lodging these thoughts
and that bullet in your head

this is a small piece of something addressed to anyone walking around slow, slow, slowly with foreign words in their pockets, on their tongues, or even written into the margins of their favorite books. for you, with all the undelivered apology notes pressed close into the cracked cage of your ribs or the creases of your palms.

this small piece of something has become a little something larger. it now belongs to the man, his pen and his muse, promising to dig up the bones of past lovers, promising to leave their souls behind for someone with more experience.

my little piece of something that became a something larger now takes root and grows like petals and vines reaching out of the writing whore’s eye sockets. for the flirtatious girls who sing softly as they transcribe for extended periods of time, until bruises and cracks begin to show, until working to forget someone becomes a dream they have to kill.

this piece belongs to all the boys, the girls, the vee and theys in between, the writers struggling to put fine words to paper, but drifting slow, slow, slowly into dark water.

It feels like everything I’ve written lately has been stolen from someplace else. It’s getting harder and harder to draw the line between inspiration and thieving goods.

OKAY FUCKERS. This photo:

“If you’ve read the Bible…” Hi. I have. I’ve read the KJV 8 times all the way through since I’ve been in the 6th grade. I’m 24 now. (I’m bad at math, so you’ll have to do it yourself) Also: I’ve read 2 alternate versions, twice. Each. That’s 12 times between 3 versions of Biblical texts.

Most of it is outdated. Most of it could stand to be rewritten. I’M NOT MAKING ANY CLAIMS ABOUT WHAT THE FUCKING BIBLE DOES OR DOES NOT SAY ABOUT ANY-FUCKING-THING.

But here’s the thing: IT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF when people think that just because I’ve read the Bible and just because I believe in God, it automatically means I hate the LGBTAQ population - of which I HAPPEN TO BE A MEMBER.

Let’s get this out now, y’all.

I believe in God. I’ve read the Bible. I IDENTIFY AS PANSEXUAL.

Do I believe in marriage equality?

HELL FUCKING YES I DO.

Do I support the separation of church and state?

HELL FUCKING YES I DO. (Though this is a lot more dicey than a black and white yes or no answer, but I digress)…

My main issue with this text photo is the connotation that all religious people are assholes. Some of them are.

Even were I NOT religious (though I’d say I’m less religious than “spiritual”—I don’t practice institutionalized religion) I WOULD STILL BE AN INVARIABLE ASSHOLE. I’m just a douchebag. I’m always going to be one, and believing in God is NOT going to change that about me. The point to this is that sometimes people are assholes because they’re just assholes. It makes zero fucking sense to base preconceived notions on an entire population of people who may or mayn’t be douchedickheads because of their belief system.

I just WISH people would stop launching the first motherfucking attack all the time! Stop attacking people who AREN’T attacking you! If some guy walks up to you and your queer partner and beats you both over the head with his religious beliefs, you THEN have the right to tell him or her to go fuck him or herself. I would be the first person to pop off at the mouth with some, “Hey cockwaffle—you and your beliefs can blow me, except NOT, because my partner does that well enough for me already.”

I’m a pretty laid back person. So I’m not attacking anyone who has put this “strike first” mentality into practice, as it were. I’m just saying that not all religious people are against marriage equality. Of course, people are WELL WITHIN their rights to create and post photos like this. (The person who posted this photo—I adore his blog. He’s a great writer, one handsome ass motherfucker, and—from what I’ve seen of him on Tumblr—he’s a great person. He and I could probably shoot the breeze over a glass of dark liquor.)

As a person who is entrenched quite firmly on that middle ground—stuck between a rock and hard place, between a belief system and a personal choice in lifestyle/who I’m attracted to—I think it would be nice to see some of us hold hands and bond or some shit. Because siriusly, FCKH8.

Okay, I think I’m done here. HANDJOBS FOR EVERYBODY! <3

Her legs hurt often, pricks and pin points of pain that traveled up from the soles of her feet and settled nightly in her hands, stayed a while throughout her day like reminders and undelivered apology notes, promises of unmedicated retribution.

In a room full of people, she was a writer.

What else could she be but that? But in the end she never answered the question of why she did it or how. Never understood that the writing couldn’t set her apart. Because in a room full of writers she was just another. Just another body. Just another fuck up with a filthy mouth and a way with words.

Here is the portion where nicknames would go—she didn’t have any. Nicknames connote a closeness with another human soul, a type of fondness and acceptance of a bastardized version of ones own name or characteristic flaws (which she had many of) or attributes.

The smoothness of her skin seemed to revolt on her in later years. Pores too big for the bridge of her nose, teeth yellowing with the constant consumption of red. Birthing hips not put to use, because, again, procreation connotes and requires a closeness—at least, to her it did.

And anyone from her teenaged years wouldn’t have recognized her. The line of her neck stretched a little longer after high school. Her spine, a bit more bruised. Her tongue, a lot sharper. Her eyes, a little more manic, if that were possible. Her smile, less unhinged.

In the family she was one man’s favorite. Not a father—she never had one of those—but closer than any had ever come. He died before she did, as things go, but even after he was gone, when she asked to be told she was special, he obliged. She believed it was true; the statement matters less than her response to it.

She liked to break dishes whenever the thought struck her like heavy heart-sized fists. The minutely detailed transparent ones were her favorite to shatter. She’d shove them off the counter, call it an accident, smile when the curses, the not agains floated to her 9-holed ears.

This is where the nostalgia would go. This is where the post-death yearning for her would go. This is where the listeners all smile or bite back a sob and think momentarily about one moment in time where they may have touched her or could have, but didn’t.

This is why you aren’t meant to write your own eulogy yourself.

the shit no fucking body tells you about being an “alcoholic starving artist” - a writer through and through - is that most of us can’t even afford the goddamned booze.

promise you’ll let her know if you’re dying
when you’re dying, how and why you’re both dying
though she knows that death is singular—is
only ever one—a whispered: still, please promise her.

she’ll beg. beg in so many ways that make you
hate her: from her knees. she’ll beg you from her knees.
but please promise her. when you do she’ll swallow
spoonfuls of resignation, like cough syrup. just one more?

okay. just one more. one more swallow. for one more
promise. okay. and you’ve never seen tears like those?
okay. and you said death would come slow, like a filtering drug
not fast and thieving—i.e. your hands, her heart.

and when death comes to stroke her organs:
just wake up, you’ll say. wake up, shake it off.
shake it off? she’ll say. okay. wake up, shake it off like
she’ll never doubt again. now repeat.

promise me. i’m awake. i’m shaking.
now promise me death doesn’t hurt.

Heteroflexible girls believe Poe had vagina dentate

TRUFAX. However, I’m very pansexual and am very afraid that I cannot agree, darlin’

She believes in the fear of producing a bad piece of writing the way most bisexual men believe Edgar Allan Poe owned a case of vagina dentate. But still, after chewing fingernails, a valium, stale bread and (mistakenly) coffee grounds from the last brewed pot of desperation, here it is, fuckers.

i’m only here to say that one of you needs to just fucking take one for the team and date me already.

how young is
too young
to be this
exhausted?

how young is
too young for
one luminous
point to supernova?

i hope these words earn me an audience with you
so i can watch, to see them make you wonder

i hope these words stick to your ribs like
overheated tack, like running tar, like aged molasses

i hope these words make you reckless, boundless
restless, that they strike you, bite you, bleed you

i hope these words mean something to you
because certainly, mother, writing them means

everything to me