She holds her hair up with only two chopsticks and a bobby pin.
Think Atlas. Think shoulders.
When your sadness starts to feast,
she carries the light down from the
mountain and hands it to you,
tells you to set it on fire.
Think Prometheus. Think savior.
On Sunday, she steps out of the shower and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the way she walks towards you with a towel on her head, water clinging to her like there is
nowhere else it would rather be.
Think Aphrodite. Think sea foam.
You love her like mythology.
You love her like the impossible stories of Gods and monsters.
When she sings, think fairies.
Think mermaids. Think hymns.
She is the face of the river that
Narcissus fell in love with,
confusing hers for his own.
She is Medusa’s fury,
Athena’s strength,
Achelois’ healing.
You are kissing her in a crowded
restaurant and it feels like praying.
You are watching her instead of the
meteor shower
and you don’t even notice.

Mythology | Caitlyn Siehl  (via honeyandgunpowder)
(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she.)

e.e. cummings, from may i feel said he (via violentwavesofemotion)
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.

Richard Siken, from “Dirty Valentine” (via aoacampbell)
Iʼm clumsy. Yesterday I tripped over my self-esteem, landed on my pride and it shattered like an iPhone with a broken face. Now I canʼt even tell whoʼs trying to give me a compliment. Iʼve never been in the military but I have this purple heart. I got it from beating myself up over things I canʼt fix.
Rudy Francisco, from My Honest Poem
5,401 plays


"if I could, I would nail these hands to the edges of stars I would sacrifice this body to the sky, hoping to resurrect as someone who’s spiteful enough to not care about you anymore."


I want to locate a bit of you, cradle it,
say: this, there is no word for this.

Jeffrey McDaniel, “The Offer” (via lifeinpoetry)
telling the story of a world
created by a god,
who wanted to be loved
but did not like to talk.

Laura Kasischke, Warehouse of Prayers
(via thesemightysecrets )

My creative writing professor told me to stop
writing about love. I asked him why and he said,
“Because you have turned it over and over in your hands,
felt every angle, every fault, every inch,
every bruise. You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spent the next 3 weeks writing about science
and space. Stars exploding.
Getting sucked into a black hole.
How much I wished I could sleep inside of that nothingness
without being annihilated. What an exploding star
would taste like. If it would make our stomachs glow
like fireflies, or tingle and shake like pop rocks
under our tongue.

My creative writing professor told me that those poems
weren’t what he was looking for.
He tells me to stop writing about outer space.
Stop writing about science.
Again, I ask him why. Again, he says,
“You have ruined it for yourself.”
I spend the next three weeks writing about my mother,
how we are told we can’t make homes inside
of other human beings, but the foreclosure sign
on my mother’s empty womb tells me that women
who give birth know a different,
more painful truth.

My creative writing professor tells me I am both talented
and hopeless, that everything I write is both visceral and empty,
a walking circus with no animals inside
but a beautiful trapeze artist with a broken hip
selling popcorn in the entrance-way.

He tells me to stop writing about my mother. I don’t ask why.
I pick up my books and my notepad
and I leave his office with my war stories
tucked under my tongue like an exploding star,
like the taste of the last person I ever loved,
like my mother’s baby thermometer, and I do not look back.
We are all writing about our mothers, our lovers,
the empty space that we will never be able to breathe in.
We are all carrying stones in our pockets
and tossing them back and forth in our hands,
trying to explain the heaviness
and we will never stop writing about love,
about black holes, about how quiet it must have been
inside the chaos of my mother’s belly,
inside the chaos of his arms,
inside the chaos of the spaces in every poem
I have ever written.

None of this is ruined.
Do not listen to them when they tell you that it is.

Caitlyn Siehl, “My Creative Writing Professor Told Me to Stop Writing About Love” (via alonesomes)
When I leave you I turn to stone
and when I come back I turn to stone

I name you Medusa
I name you the older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah
you baptismal basin that burned Rome

The murdered hum their poems on the hills
and the rebels reproach the tellers of their stories
while I leave the sea behind and come back
to you, come back
by this small river that flows in your despair

I hear the reciters of the Quran and the shrouders of corpses
I hear the dust of the condolers
I am not yet thirty, but you buried me, time and again
and each time, for your sake
I emerge from the earth
So let those who sing your praises go to Hell
those who sell souvenirs of your pain
all those who are standing with me now in the picture

I name you Medusa
I name you the older sister of Sodom and Gomorrah
you baptismal basin that still burns

When I leave you I turn to stone
When I come back I turn to stone

Najwan Darwish, Jerusalem  (via yesyes)
(let’s go said he
not too far said she
what’s too far said he
where you are said she)

e.e. cummings, from “my i feel said he”
Your love is burning you up.
Spent years writing about women,
admiring their fleshy thighs,
dedicating fragments to their fingers,
their voices, their pleated hair.
You hid in your writings,
among the familiarity of stanza,
of consonant, in the soft flick
of the tongue against hard pallet.
Spent winters praying to Aphrodite
for the summers to be kind to you.
Stung with love, you sought out a balm—
hoping you’d find it hidden in the Goddess’s
hair. You are burning up. Electric current
on your skin, all you want is him.
But you do not write about him;
find that you cannot. His name is lodged
so deep in your throat that you can swallow
around how it chokes you. It is so unbearably
hot. Love runs like wildfire in your veins
and he won’t even look at you.
You pray. You write about women,
trying to lose yourself in what you know.
But the heat. The heat pulls and clings and pushes.
You knew, didn’t you? Knew that when you took
that running jump and flung yourself
off of that rock, graceful and pointed and
gleaming like a harpsichord string, trying to
cool the fever of your infatuation—
You must have known
that you weren’t going to float.

Kristina Haynes, “Sappho’s Leap” (via fleurishes)

I leave the number and a short
message on every green Volvo
in town

Is anything wrong?
I miss you.

The phone rings constantly.
One says, Are you bald?
Another, How tall are you in
your stocking feet?

Most just reply, Nothing’s wrong.
I miss you, too.

The Ubiquity Of The Need For Love, Ronald Koertge (via janehasatearinheresophagus)

(Source: thesarahroberts-blog)

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth
are small and even. I don’t get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench
where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas,
I’d meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could
have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me. I’m still trying to find a job
for which a simple machine isn’t better suited.
I’ve seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish
like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact:
if we were going the speed of light, this dome
would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn’t the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I’m not one
among millions who saw Monroe’s face
in the moon. I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I’d live in hotels. I won awards
in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago.
Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him
Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.

C.D. Wright, “Personals” (via fleurishes)

and you know what else? She’s all proud
to be a Gemini. She tells everyone,

as if being crazy was a prize
show horse she wants to tie up

in the front yard. Why would anyone
want to feel things twice?

Like yes, I’ll take the electric chair
and the spear. I’ll have the food poisoning

and the poison. May I please fall in love with
two different people at the same time until

love is peeling itself away from me
in all directions like I am a fucking banana

or a wishbone. Some days,
I feel sorry for her. I really do.

She doesn’t realize it, but she is starving.
She’s got too many mouths to feed

in that head of hers. She’s got
too many heads on that vase of a neck.

Must be like making love
to a puppet show.

Sierra DeMulder, The Genius Discusses Astrology (via meteo-write)