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I wish that people would stop
Aggravating my doubts.
I wish that how much I love you
Could make you smarter and more motivated,
Maybe make you understand
That how much I love you is not conditional.
I wish that your use of words like "beautiful"
When we're naked
Would be banned for the sake of honesty,
Or maybe encouraged for the sake of my self-esteem.
Maybe my self-esteem is not dependent on you at all,
But it's nice to play games, to experiment
With things like needing other people for validation.
Things like that quality everyone else has,
That ability to fake it till the peer group makes up its mind,
That ability to assi
Home Where I Am
You say you will make
home where I am.
And so I am home
wherever you can reach me,
a thousand miles,
a breath away.
Aching as I straddle your
basking in frequent compliments.
Ice melts against hot skin
and your laughter in
It's not home where I am
I never will be.
Mom wanting to move is only the beginning. It gets significantly harder to deal with. Things are going to spiral, and quickly, and you will know a kind of love you are too young for. Don't worry, that's not a bad thing. But don't beat yourself up too much for still wanting what's left of your childhood. For still wanting your mother. She's yours, too.
If you ever can't figure out how to be thankful for the divorce, be thankful that there's usually one parent out of their house. Pot is not always a bad thing. Neither is sex.
Don't leave the box of razorblades on the dresser by your bed.
Also...I know he is right
I believe my hipbones were made
so you could run your fingers
and my collarbones are locked in
place for the sole purpose
of your teeth
I believe in the power that made
an agnostic praying in
a synagogue cry;
I believe in the something that
tipped the scales.
I believe in the way I still
can't draw breath thinking of
the train station,
the way I climbed into my
father's lap as a little girl
to watch him play piano
in that house,
one last time.
I believe in the beauty of
befriending my mother;
I believe in saying the words
aloud, even if you
know they know
you mean it.
I believe in cellos
These days you don't come up much,
and that's a lot easier.
I like to write about it
but I've never liked to talk.
These days, sometimes I wonder if
you're ever going to stagger back
into my existence with your cowboy
charm that always felt misplaced within
It's a lot easier
to write you off as a has-been, never-would've-been,
to claim so surely that you are going to rot in whatever
drug-coma you stumble into first,
but it's impossible
to square the you that took my virginity
with the you that still won't say my name.
There was a little boy beneath all those muscles
and he was always crying;
you were able
Logic and Love I
If this was about logic, I'd be long gone.
I'd have run at the first belly-quaking laugh,
Sprinted into a single-girl sunset
With a bottle of booze.
You would be a dirty fantasy of
And I would
Tell my college friends about
The hot younger guy who hit on me.
If this was about logic, I'd be your wet dream.
I'd be dancing filthy with everyone who looked my way,
Back to my semi-sluttish habits.
You would be a glimmer on
The back of my mind
And I would
Tell my best friends about
The hot younger guy I almost kissed.
If this was about logic, I'd be a different kind of unhappy.
I'd bury my problems in anger and
I spend so much time crying,
I forget to check for rain.
Those days when things are better
come for precious minutes,
moments without needles
in my brain matter,
The wind could be your breath;
I turn and a weight drops
between my ribs
If you touched me I might melt,
crumble beneath your fingertips,
fall apart and unravel, disintegrate.
I might stop breathing.
It would be that good.
Telling you everything.
Inevitably it will get dark while I'm reading entire novels in the bathtub. While I'm watching my skin for signs of the blood highway beneath it, pretending I have wide hips and small breasts and a tan.
Inevitably I will crawl up the stairs to my flimsy mattress in my underwear, pretending I don't notice how many people have found their way into the house. We don't party here, no; we talk and are generally disruptive.
I will fall asleep to the sounds of their voices, familiar if not precisely comforting, wondering where my roommate is and whether I will open my eyes tomorrow to see shadows or sunshine.
Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a lo
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More