My God worshiped me. He spread a hand across my bare stomach like a preacher who thinks he owns his Bible. His fingers stretched while inside of me without understanding a damn thing about body chemistry. I boil over and combust, not in danger but in show. I am something to be seen, put on a shelf and admired like the last trophy he won in high school that his mother mounted to her wall. God’s walls were bare except one conner was loudly stamped with a poster of a naked woman bent over grabbing a beer from a fridge. His word was written on the wall. I played fetch and he watched. I came back like a dog. Crawling home at the whistle. My lips were always pouted, drool pooling at the smell of an offering, eventually chapping after salvation dried up with God’s idea of my eternal youth.

He said our dining table would have no wine glasses, an array of dishes for sharing food, lots of elbow room for our terrible tales, even more space to set down forgiveness and laughter, a table that is seated beside an open door as an invite to our friends (the ones who come, the ones who go, the ones we pray will come back before dessert), we’d eat and cry and love and love and love for a very, very long time.

A LETTER TO MY LOVER EXPLAINING HOW IT FEELS TO BE LOVED BY A GENTLE MAN//phoebe.a.poetry Via Instagram

When did it all end? The running around in the garden, building homes out of sticks in the woods, secret places that housed our hushed voices, jumping on trampolines, giggles before sleep? We were girls and we swore the world was ours even if our world was as small as the town we grew up in. Womanhood (this version of womanhood) suits me, fits me like a long slip dress, hugging me softly, never wrapping her hands around my neck. Her and I bathe together in pools of authenticity and tell the men we love how much we really do love them, and keep the others an arms length (two arms, three, ten..) away. But my god I miss playing pretend. Because there is nothing like being a girl surrounded by girls in childhood. Before the world showed me its teeth, bit me so hard the scars on my wrists shimmer in the light if you really pay attention. Isn’t that something… who we asked to watch over us? Momma look at me, watch me momma… to Mother what have I done? I love you. How did I end up like you?

I wanted to speak up, I almost did but I had this horrible feeling that it would kill me. Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of your own tongue? //phoebe.a.poetry via Instagram

There’s this trend about getting to do simple little things all because life didn’t end when we were seventeen. So I’m going to tell you that I went to the market, picked out individual shiny red apples, mangos, and half a dozen other goods. I got to the checkout line and my basket was full, not one thing was left to rot [including myself] once home! My hair is shorter, darker and it wasn’t because some boy broke my heart. I was teaching myself about mine!! I drove to the beach to shell hunt, dip my toes into the water after work!!! Did you read that?!? I live minutes away from the ocean, the sea air touches my cheeks every morning kissing me awake, licking away my tears because nine year old me never thought I’d make it. I never thought I’d make it.

My life is full of silly little tasks that I didn’t think would be possible. What I’m saying is don’t give up. Someone needs you to give life another chance, several more chances even. The hardest thing I’ve ever done was let myself be loved by me. This June I’ll be 27, I’ll have one year sober. And I know I’m suppose to take life one day at a time but MY GOD it is exciting. The world didn’t end all the times I thought it would. All the times I wanted it to. I’M ALIVE. Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand what this means??

ROTTING GIRLS DO GET BETTER // OPEN YOUR MOUTH, SPEAK UP. THE WORLD WILL NOT END BECAUSE YOU’VE SHOWN IT YOUR HUMANITY // phoebe.a.poetry via Instagram

And one day you realize you didn’t kiss half those people out of love. Because you think maybe with another mouth on your mouth, you are no longer alone. The devouring was never romantic, but they ate your loneliness. You didn’t want to be kissed, you wanted to be tongued down, needed absent of authenticated. The blood on their teeth was yours, and you’d lick it off if asked. You’d smile too if that was demanded.

I am learning how to play nicely with myself. Because there is a story of a girl and her godhood that either made you want to kiss her murderously or throw your fists through the nearest wall. You danced with her around the fire and only walked away as the forest burnt to the ground. Something was slowly killing her. And it was killing you too because when decay looks up at the vultures, it does not smile.

TIME IS A FUNNY THING// by phoebe.a.poetry

That’s the thing, I was a lonely child. And when I got older that loneliness was already thread between my ribs. It tightened [binding me shut] every time my mouth sought out warm breath. I didn’t want to be kissed, I wanted to be known by my taste, by my temperature. It took me a long time to understand the difference between devoted, patient revealing & eager, hot breath smothering my neck. It took even longer for me to care about either one.

Truthfully it scares me, the unnerving thought of a home. Yes, I desire something to call my own. A space containing no loud noise, open windows to hear strangers living strange lives while I sit on a carpeted floor webbing my fingers out as if to weave myself into the structure itself. But my world had been small, and even then it was hard to swallow. And my ideas only knew bounds, they were soaked with shallowness and bred with mundanity. I was one thing, in one place, owning one handful of hearts. Something had known me my whole life, while I had not known myself at all. I want to be learned as I learn myself. Most pressingly, I want to be unlearned. Almost forgotten every night to be studied with unbiased come morning. What happens when I become my home? What happens if you want nothing to do with me?

She is spilling out of herself, seeping into the carpet, dampening bodies beside her. And she thinks “My God, how do I stop this wetness from pooling around my feet? How do I prevent all this witnessing?”

[Maybe there is no casual way of inviting others to our disgusting displays of humanity. Maybe that’s the beauty of closeness.]

I make dinner with all the leftovers in my fridge and try to think about anything other than every day I chose survival over serenity. It has been a long week and I have one chicken apple sausage left so I put it on a pan to heat up and suddenly I smell apple pie and see my moms kitchen. My breath quickens and I start to panic and walk to the pantry and brace myself on the frame. I remember there is some cottage cheese I saved from yesterdays lunch so I grab it and bite my lip to keep it from quivering. I think to myself “it’s okay to cry but you do not have to cry. life isn’t what it was.” Sometimes I think my body could split in half, like the olives I cut in two and added to my pate. A single cheese stick sits on my counter mocking me because the way I can pull myself apart piece by piece in vain attempts to be useful, turns to acid in my belly until vomit rises up my throat in a pointless act of self disgust. I reach for a handful of banana chips and think about crushing them with a closed fist just to blow the remnants off my palm to prove to myself how easy it is for me to destroy a good thing. My roommate startles me as she places a plate of homemade cookies in front of me. An invitation to eat. A signal that she shares my thoughts. That hers need to be softened, sweetened from time to time too.

not be a flirt but I see God in you

— phoebe.a.poetry Via Instagram

I know I can’t go back and sometimes I let that thought curl around my spine and bend me until pain reaches up my neck like a hand coaxing me to stay quiet. And it’s fleeting, but it’s there.

I won’t die in a burning house. I won’t be a burning house. I have to figure out a new way to live. A new way to love.

I have so many teeth God.

And I use them.

I bare them at you

before opening my mouth to hiss.

Mostly because I believe in you,

if I didn’t I couldn’t justify all this anger.

Without you,

I only have myself left to blame.

Ugly Duckling

I didn’t know anything and then I turned 18. Flocks of ducks came near the waters edge to witness the spread of my wings. They were far closer to seeing my near drowning. Although some (preferably) had intent to swoop in and save me from a slow death by snapping my neck clean in two. I was desirable until I was dead. I was wanted until I needed. They flinched at my mention of girlhood because their godhood was at risk for being see as cannibal.

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you