oh my fucking god.
im over here crying bc i forgot how negative as fuck my writing is and i was so worried i might have triggered him i forgot how fucking triggering a lot of my things are and i was so so worried i just cried and almost an hour goes by and im so worried i upset him and
HE FUCKING REPLIES WITH A POEM HE WROTE FOR ME.
I AM A CRYING DISASTER. THIS FUCKING BOY.
IM NOT FUCKING RELIGIOUS AND THIS FUCKING ANGEL
am i the luckiest woman on earth. yeah, yeah i think so.
my heart just like, fuck. crying mess.
i dont know where he came from i cant.
i love him so much.
i feel like a disney princess minus the disney part because im not all that disney and heres dumb prince charming with his dumb heart and his dumb face and his dumb tattoos and his dumb thoughts and his dumb smile and by dumb i mean lovely and im going to cry why have i never felt this way about somebody before and where did he come from where did this all come from i am going to cry and hide under a blanket forever
Woke up to a lovely surprise email - getting published again :)
Also, more surprises to come.
I look at you and think light. I look at you and think.
I look at you and I look at you.
How lovely it is for the moon to catch a glimpse of her sun.
If I ever post a photo of myself or of my art, it’s just for the sake of sharing it momentarily. I may like my makeup that day, or my outfit, or I may have just finished up a drawing and want to share it with my Tumblr friends.
I’d rather not have my face or personal life all over the blogs of another. It’s just personal preference.
I don’t want my photos reblogged. I’d rather keep them on my blog. I take them down after a bit.
I wouldn’t get angry. That’s not something to get angry over. If it ever happens, which might I add is seldom, I ask the person who reblogged it if they’d kindly delete it and I’ve never had a problem with them saying no. People understand.
Thanks for the question, love.
turn me inside-out and i will show you
every limb torn from its socket
in an attempt to hold you,
make you stay.
i will point out scars like a trail -
i am breadcrumbs and leaky faucets,
black lung and
vacant apartment buildings.
take my spine and split me down the center,
crack me open to your favorite page -
read the passages that
pulse through my veins and
quote me as if the words you
ground between your teeth sharpened
were a city of gold, a fountain of youth.
read me to your children, grandchildren
i dare you -
tell them of the woman you ransacked
like a village,
how you set fire to her soul and
watched her burn like salem.
i pray you remember
as elephants do
that the words from your lips are
tainted - red,
and that the monsters in your favorite books
are much less frightening
than the man who reads of them.
Well, I’m a bit out of touch because I became “involved” last fall around November - December when I was posting poetry constantly but here are some suggestions, love.
And to all writers reading this, feel free to follow Kesia! She’s a beautiful soul and she writes absolutely lovely.
Good luck, dear. You’re already considered my friend xx
Turning a giant piece of cardboard into something rad Part I & II.
Cardboard, acrylic paint.
My hand is about to fall off.
Two or so weeks ago, it was pouring out and it was around 11 PM. I sat in bed contemplating whether I should remain wrapped in blankets or run outside and play in the rain. I thought about it for a few minutes, threw on a cami and shorts and skipped out the front door onto the driveway. I just stood and turned about in circles looking up at this dark, dark sky and it - it overwhelmed me. I couldn’t tell you prior to that moment when I’d last stood or even felt rain without trying to run from it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always enjoyed the rain, but I’d forgotten what it felt like - what it really felt like.
A few minutes later, two of my siblings came out and reprimanded me, assuming there was an ulterior motive to my wanting to play in the rain. So, the moment was cut short.
I didn’t exactly fall in love with myself that night, but I have a newfound appreciation for the quiet beauty in everydayness. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
vicodin and think
the world will forget that
your hands are
red heads of matchsticks
waiting for friction.
hills like white elephants and watercolor sky
penned hemingway between sips of scotch one evening.
through lens to a landscape -
polaroid-preserve nature; a fine moment indeed.
to charred mountain-range faces,
to brooks silenced in concrete from…
and i can no
longer tell if
my heart races from
the coffee or the
sound of your voice.