girls are stronger than tigers.

And this is how it always ends: my friends blaming him and
empty tubes of chapstick, and
fingernails, half painted, chipping black flakes
into the carpet.
He is in her bed, and I am naked
on the floor of my shower
weeping for two hours straight, until the water runs cold and
I am late for work, my skin sagging like the circles under my eyes.

It doesn’t end with goodbye,
just fewer hellos, and a silent cellphone,
Relearning how to be alone.

So I will sink, and you will go swimming with her in the atlantic,
and it always ends this way: I am trying to stay away from mirrors,
trying not to hear her name
in conversation. I think of all the ways she is better than me,
and the ones who came before her. I think that I will be alone forever.

And I am afraid of being me. And I am afraid of the freedom.
And it hurts; I am disposable. Sometimes it feels so painfully cyclical.
I am a filler, a snack between meals that you eat
because you are bored.

I flake off
like nail polish. Under the covers of my bed I swear
that this is it. That I will learn to love this. That alone
my bed is a palace, and my books
are little beds themselves. That I will build a web,
outrun hell.

But in the morning, her face still stings behind my eyelids
and I am still drawing wedding rings on my finger in sharpie.
I am learning not to fear me,
I’m sorry.

Hell or High Water; Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)

The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
oh,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name.

PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via 5000letters)

(via 5000letters)

lzbth:

swag won’t pay the bills but apparently neither will your degree

(via r-u-volatile)

You’re not friends. You’ll never be friends. You’ll be in love till it kills you both. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll hate each other till it makes you quiver, but you’ll never be friends. Love isn’t brains, children, it’s blood…blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love’s bitch, but at least I’m man enough to admit it.

—Spike - Buffy the Vampire Slayer (via 5000letters)

… she no longer said “making love”; she said “having sex.” But it amounted to the same thing. You had sex, and love got made out of it whether you liked it or not. You woke up on a bed or more likely on a mattress, with an arm around you, and found yourself wondering what it might be like to keep on doing it.

Margaret Atwood, from “The Age of Lead,” Wilderness Tips (via lifeinpoetry)

(via athelasss)

Bring Me Your Scars

writingsforwinter:

Bring me your scars, love. Bring me your wanting to dies

and your hoping to be deads.

Rome burned for six days and seven nights then rebuilt itself

from the cinders like a phoenix.

Yesterday you wept until the entire room was filled with salt.

But remember that once every Roman soldier was paid

in the very material your tears are made of-

they must be worth something.

Bring me every storm that rumbled beneath your skin,

bring me every season you slept in until noon

then made your way out from underneath the covers

like a deer just learning to stand.

Bring me your scars, love, bring me your heart

and I will teach it how to keep beating.