This body.

This body This soft, pale, generous body That has given so much That has carried your disdain That you hate for its stubborn bounty That you expect me to slice and squeeze And hate and starve and apologize for As big as this body is It should be bigger It's not big enough to hold the pain It somehow manages to contain.

I cry oceans trying to let it out But there aren't enough tears There is always another ocean waiting At the center of this galaxy I have become A seed almost too small to see A kernel of a wound The wrongest of wrongs That should have been ripped from my heart and crumbled to dust before it could grow But alas, it was watered with silence and darkness and shame and fear And fed with blood and fury and packed Tighter and tighter into my being Until it could no longer hold itself so small And burst into my skin My hated skin Soft and pale and generous This body.

A Question.

Every waking breath Craves home Longing to rest under an unassailable roof.

What freedom must they feel, Who lay their troubles outside the door And dream easy in the threatless dark?

Day 21: Solstice Sunset. The sun going down for the longest night of the year seems like a fitting moment to formally declare myself part of the Resistance. #DecemberReflections #resist #nerdtattoo

Empty house + guitar = making new musics. #songwriting #alonetime

Watch: Samantha Bee gives Jimmy Fallon and NBC the treatment they deserve over Trump

Malcolm Reynolds, Collan Rosvenir (from Melanie Rawn's unfinished Exiles trilogy), Will Hunting. Sidenote: why are there no broody lady scoundrels? #threefictionalcharacters

once i called a cab in February and had to wait two hours in the cold on a bench outside a building surrounded by bags of groceries i remember struggling with the cold feeling panicked and shivering until i took a deep breath and just was cold this is life: deep breaths and just being exactly what you already are

sometimes i feel like i swallowed a hot coal and that ember burns steadily where my voice comes out of my heart i struggle to say enough words to move enough air to cool enough fire to breathe i can talk for hours dig deeper cry harder but that hot stone does not budge always i am searching for the words to set that pain free

!!!!

What happens when you scream out of your window in Sweden at night

Does the sun ask itself, “Am I good? Am I worthwhile? Is there enough of me?” No, it burns and it shines. Does the sun ask itself, “What does the moon think of me? How does Mars feel about me today?” No it burns, it shines. Does the sun ask itself, “Am I as big as other suns in other galaxies?” No, it burns, it shines.

Andrea Dworkin, Our blood: prophecies and discourses on sexual politics (1976)

our sufferings do not magically end; instead we are able to wisely alchemically recycle them. they become the abundant waste that we use to make new growth possible.

bell hooks (via clementinemorrigan)

hope is a fuckin’ drug dangerous and deadly filling my head with aphrodisiac visions while it gnaws the bottom out of this heart

maybe someday things will get better things will hurt less maybe someday things will be different I will be different

but this leaded glass doesn’t change the color of my past #nofilter can lighten up the unsafe anchors I can’t outrun

and just because all I see when I look up is hope doesn’t mean I’m not still falling

…We are complete with or without a mate, with or without a child. We get to decide for ourselves what is beautiful when it comes to our bodies. That decision is ours and ours alone. Let’s make that decision for ourselves and for the young women in this world who look to us as examples. Let’s make that decision consciously, outside of the tabloid noise. We don’t need to be married or mothers to be complete. We get to determine our own “happily ever after”

Jennifer Aniston

Persephone

inspired by “Through the Boughs,” by Andrea Kowch  

The only thing she can do straight is look you in the eye. Everything else is magpie-shiny bits-of-this-and-that and cobbled together from whatever is lying around.

Her mind, fed on all-day-dusk and crunchy leaves and cornstalks tied into great dessicated towers, twists and turns more than the wiry copper coils that snake their way out of her unbound braids and ring the pale moon of her face in a titian halo.

She is all layers - clothes and coif and the spiraling darkness leading from pupil to amygdala - lace and calico and a heavy cable knit, for warmth - thin lips over clenched teeth over a tongue held too long.

Her world fades sepia, with whirling black spots of ravens and crows and murmurations of starlings, flocking from one edge of her burnt sienna skies to a distant other. Her expression is grim. Her outlook is gray. Her present is grievous.

She used to sew in neat stitches, end-to-end dashes, borders of orderly seams that would easily hold right through to spring. She hasn’t the patience for such fine work, such delicate concentration with needle and thread and fingers gone numb. Her hems are ragged and starting to fray.

But there are moments, sometimes, when she almost seems all right, when her cheeks flare rose and gold, a sunset threatening to rise again. She can still plant her feet on solid earth, and look you straight in the eye.

One of the chickens hatched a baby. #backyardchickens

Finally found some words. (but no music, yet)