+ 186 Notes

The more texts I type out to you and never send, the less I remember about your voice. The less I remember about your voice, the more I realize there are entire things I have yet to say to you. Like how ferris wheels make my whole stomach laugh and my knees ache for ground. Like how Las Vegas is the city my father fell in love the second time, except this time with the queen on the back of a playing card and not the one waiting for him at home. Like how I am dozens of lifetimes away from forgetting but always seconds away from forgiving. Like how I miss you. Like how I don’t. Like I how I lie sometimes.

You are a bowl of cherries in the lap of a schoolboy. You are the reddest juice leaking from between his teeth afterwards. You are the moments he stares at himself in the mirror and mistakes it all for blood. You are the second his mother sees him run by in the hallway and mistake her baby boy for a murderer or the murdered. We are all making guesses we know are wrong. We are all always throwing our lives into cages of hurting, even when they are not built for us. You are the way we never stop. You are the way I never seem to stop.

Tonight, I am tripping on flat surfaces and learning to become faceless. I am watching the corners for shadows other than my own. I am crossing my fingers for a day when erasing your name from the margin of my notebook means I will never be able to scribble it back in again. I am waiting for the day when I can walk past a row of cages and not feel as though these arms need bending into them. Tonight, I pull out my phone and it waters my eyes with its glow in this dark and through the blur I type, “Fuck you. Come back. Fuck you.”

Texts Better Left Unsent | Ramna Safeer
Jul 25 @ 1:04 AM
writings   prose  
+ 2730 Notes

paintdeath:

Kumi Yamashitas portraits made with sewing thread and nails

Jul 24 @ 1:48 AM
+ 11456 Notes
For many of these women, the reading experience begins from a place of seething rage. Take Sara Marcus’ initial impression of Jack Kerouac: “I remember putting On the Road down the first time a woman was mentioned. I was just like: ‘Fuck. You.’ I was probably 15 or 16. And over the coming years I realized that it was this canonical work, so I tried to return to it, but every time I was just like, ‘Fuck you.’” Tortorici had a similarly visceral reaction to Charles Bukowski: “I will never forget reading Bukowski’s Post Office and feeling so horrible, the way that the narrator describes the thickness of ugly women’s legs. I think it was the first time I felt like a book that I was trying to identify with rejected me. Though I did absorb it, and of course it made me hate my body or whatever.” Emily Witt turned to masculine texts to access a sexual language that was absent from books about women, but found herself turned off by their take: “many of the great classic coming-of-age novels about the female experience don’t openly discuss sex,” she says in No Regrets. “I read the ones by men instead, until I was like, ‘I cannot read another passage about masturbation. I can’t. It was like a pile of Kleenex.”

This isn’t just about the books. When young women read the hyper-masculine literary canon—what Emily Gould calls the “midcentury misogynists,” staffed with the likes of Roth, Mailer, and Miller—their discomfort is punctuated by the knowledge that their male peers are reading these books, identifying with them, and acting out their perspectives and narratives. These writers are celebrated by the society that we live in, even the one who stabbed his wife. In No Regrets, Elif Bautman talks about reading Henry Miller for the first time because she had a “serious crush” on a guy who said his were “the best books ever,” and that guy’s real-life recommendation exacerbated her distaste for the fictional. When she read Miller, “I felt so alienated by the books, and then thinking about this guy, and it was so hot and summertime … I just wanted to kill myself. … He compared women to soup.”
Jul 23 @ 7:41 PM
+ 548 Notes
Stop worrying about your identity and concern yourself with the people you care about, ideas that matter to you, beliefs you can stand by, tickets you can run on. Intelligent humans make those choices with their brain and hearts and they make them alone. The world does not deliver meaning to you. You have to make it meaningful…and decide what you want and need and must do. It’s a tough, unimaginably lonely and complicated way to be in the world. But that’s the deal: you have to live; you can’t live by slogans, dead ideas, clichés, or national flags. Finding an identity is easy. It’s the easy way out.
Zadie Smith, On Beauty (via quotes-shape-us)
Jul 23 @ 2:11 PM
+ 27 Notes

WOO I was tagged by the beautiful Azra! These are some selfies of me spanning about a year, of me 1) at a student voice conference, 2) the night of my high school graduation, 3) looking writerly and such, 4) being vain late and sleepy, 5) at a poetry reading, 6) and most importantly, proclaiming apple pie as the love of my life. I TAG: softlettersmostlyfiction, bbboonies, bel-imperiakeatonhensologist, and asianshrimp

Jul 23 @ 1:50 PM
+ 42282 Notes

temporary-frame-of-mind:

The station
Where I told you
I love you

Jul 23 @ 12:15 PM
+ 925 Notes

The things I write about you are not pretty.

For example: You are the ugly way I feel about Los Angeles, mouth a smear like sunset singed with citrus burns. Hollywood hill is a smashed pomegranate against your scorched teeth. All the stars walk the red carpet while I write sonnets to your mouth. It’s been too long since the last time we spoke, I’ve forgotten what everyone else looks like — your hands are trees made of smog, and they have taken root in my lungs. I wish this city would burn to the ground.

For example: The last time I fell in love, I broke all the dishes in the kitchen and bled out on the floor. You were not good for me. You held the bandaids, but I told you to put them back in the drawer. I loved being so broken for you — your heart was a hospital without the healing. My parents never taught me that being loved for your wounds was wrong.

For example: Tonight, I am falling asleep without you. I’ve had bad dreams ever since we met, things about dark-haired women that die because they never ran fast enough. I never ran fast enough. I’m still learning what it’s like not to find your face etched into the wood of my floorboards, and I’m failing miserably. You were not good for me.

For example: You were not good for me. You were California burning, and my lungs couldn’t take it. You were not good for me. You were a broken spine I couldn’t set; I was a scab you always picked. You were not good for me.

For example: Get out of my poetry, nobody wants to read about the ways we broke. Get out of my poetry, this isn’t about you anymore. This is about Los Angeles and how much I hate the sky. California wasn’t good for me — nothing about dying is pretty.

Burn Victim | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)
+ 46277 Notes
Are you the SAT because I’d do you for 3 hours and 45 minutes with a 10 minute break halfway through for snacks, and then I can stare at you for like 10 minutes and think ‘wow, I hope I don’t ruin this.’
Dude on OKC with the best pick up lines I have ever heard (via katamarang)
Jul 23 @ 12:56 AM
+ 19450 Notes

Children work in an opium field in Badakhshan, which is Afghanistan’s largest producer of opium, Northern Afghanistan, 1992

Jul 23 @ 12:10 AM
+ 21 Notes
aandks said:
Where do you find your inspiration? What do you do for writers block?

I let it be. If the words are being stubborn, I let them be. I leave them, I watch a film, I read a book. Other stories do everything for my inspiration. The other day, I watched Atonement for the millionth time and I felt so warm afterwards and felt as though I was ready to write. If the words don’t come, though, I wait for them to come back. I be patient with them, always. Writer’s block doesn’t make you less of a writer. It makes you more of a human. 

Jul 22 @ 9:55 PM
LLMNS