Cunt again? It was odd how men … used that word to demean women when it was the only part of a woman they valued.
—Asha Greyjoy, A Dance With Dragons (via neolution)
Nah I just gotta spit this at you right quick. Why should you apologize for the monster you’ve become when nobody apologized for creating the monster that you are. But the serious answer to that is because you make monsters too. And that apology you never got is the apology you never gave. It ain’t even about me. But every single time a person ever done you wrong, and any shit part of your life, you gotta realise that you can’t control that. The only thing you can control is your own self. The only power that you have is to make another persons world better. And no it ain’t power to make a persons world worse. Anybody can step on a bug. And you best believe something is gonna make that persons life bad without you. No the only power you have is your capacity to be a better person than anyone has been to you.
This is the kind of love poem that gets dirty —
I want to say I’d take you out to dinner, runs my toes over your ankle under the five-star tablecloth, but I’d actually just drive you to the highest cliff I could and shove my fingers in your mouth. I’d love you so hard you bruised from it, moaned into me that you wanted more. We’d find the kind of motel that people don’t use for anything else, fuck five times on a mattress that has seen thousands of lovers like us, bleeding over its sheets. You’d pretend not to know my name and, God, look at this — I am volatile for you, all fingernails and bent knees. Nothing about it would be tender, I’d be a gut wound and you wouldn’t even mind.
This isn’t the kind of love poem that promises anything permanent, this is the kind of love poem that says that I want to tear you apart just for the hell of it, want you naked, want you trembling. This is the kind of poem you don’t tell your parents about, go home the next morning with my name bruised onto your thigh, don’t speak of how we set the world on fire and clung together as it burned.
This is a dirty poem about the ways I would love you deep, like a disease. This is a dirty poem about how we leave ourselves in ruins. This is a dirty poem about the ashes of the war.
And you ask me where I’ve been,
and the answer, of course,
is at the bottom of a ditch somewhere
with swollen eyes and thin lips and a bottle of
cheap whisky, and you’re singing with me, and I run my hands through
your hair, through the moonlight. I am fighting the desire
to start a fight. I turn off the car. I tell you goodnight.
And you ask me where I’m going
but the answer is nowhere. The answer is anywhere
you want me to. The answer is: what you’re doing
I will do too. And there are two love letters in my pocket.
And I am thinking that tonight
maybe you’ll change orbit. And there is a sadness
the color of sunshine on the back of my mind.
And I am trying to tell you that it wasn’t right
to leave me the way you did
but you say that love
is a trembling madness. There is no way to write about it.
And you are asking me if I have been okay lately
and the answer, of course,
is no – I have been missing you terribly.
But I tremble, I let it fall.
I will not be left waiting.
I turn on my car
and I’m drunk
and I face it.
—"An Answer to the Question: Where Have You Been Lately?" - Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)