— Charles Bukowski (via gracefully-found)
when I woke up in the mornings
and the only thing I looked
forward to was going
back to bed
— poems from my uncle’s grave (via massiv3)
who use to love me and softened my nails
against my teeth until he said my name.
I’ll do things like that sometimes, just for
the thrill of it. Meanwhile, the current boy says,
‘don’t you have anything else in your wardrobe
besides black?’ Once he told me that I even
smell lonely. Cinnamon rubbed into my wrists,
salt sprinkled at my hairline; this is how I keep
my body mine. This city drags me by my hair,
rips potholes into my stomach. I watch the news
and choke on the list of the dead. I don’t count
the miles but I know the exact distance I am
from home. Sometimes I am jolted awake from
dreams about men who are disguised as wolves.
At seven, my idea of love was my mother singing
patiently to the pear tree in the backyard. Now
I beg for it like a dog at the dinner table nuzzling
your knee, drooling all over your best pair of shoes.
I only wear lipstick when I want my mouth
to be noticed. There is so much that I don’t want
to do anymore and I am running and running.
Sometimes I scale my own body looking for
a window just to see if the light is on.
i like how cis people act like it would be the worst thing in the world not to assume people’s genders i mean we don’t assume people’s names what if you just met someone and you were like “hey emily” and they were like “thats not my name its megan” and you were like “oh well how was i supposed to know. you look like an emily to me. i guess i can try to call you megan but its gonna be hard because i just see you as such an emily”