You don’t get to use 
Sexism
As a word to describe the way a woman
Makes your dick feel small.
You don’t get to
Reach your hands into the greasy filth
Of a thousand years of suffering,
And take what suits you for your own.
You have taken enough from
Limp, trembling bodies –
Blood, and tears, and skin,
And quiet sounds of capitulation,
But
You don’t get
To take This.
You don’t get to
Break our fingers and pry from us
What little armor we’re allowed
Because the rusted edges
Dig into your dripping flesh,
Engorged on Having.
You don’t get to
Tell me to be sorry,
For the times I feared you in the dark,
For the times my friendship was not my flesh,
For the times you
Used my awkward, growing body against me,
To make me feel cheap and ashamed -
Because nothing pleases you that isn’t yours.
I am not sorry.
I am tired.
Watching the news about the murder of a woman,
A chorus of anchormen agree that it’s a shame.
They say, “She was beautiful.”
Beautiful,
Which should mean so many things,
Like sinking stars in softer morning hours
And summers spent on rocky river banks,
Like whispered, humming devotions and
Silent hymns and laughter stifled by a hand.
Beautiful,
Which should mean her smile and her grace
And her thoughtful consideration,
But which, on their lips, now turns to sleaze.
They say, “She was beautiful.”
And, “It’s a shame.”
It’s a shame that no one will ever
Spread her
Beautiful
Thighs and
Fuck that girl again.

fairytalemood:

“The Little Mermaid” by Ileana Surducan

(via kayelinjo)

(Source: from89, via electri-cute)

shoulderblades:

approaching shadow, fan ho, 1952, from the hong kong yesterday series

(via ponprincess)

The door swings inward. 
 
There are corners still where light and longing do not reach,
Where sentries stand blind and robed with dust,
Guarding nerves that do not feel now, but someday might,
When the rest has gone,
When the last barricades have fallen and there is nothing else,
Just nooks and crannies and the memory of,
“I promise you that nothing fits.”
 
I like a small, warm home,
With just enough space for me,
A cocoon,
And, always,
The door swings inward –
It cuts into parts of me and makes them not my own,
Makes them thick calluses and raised scars,
Promises of future former wounds,
It swings inward so that it does not swing outward,
Does not waver in the hallway in the world that isn’t mine,
In the hesitating possibilities beyond my control.
 
The door swings inward
and I open it just a crack.

(via pixidix)

i find bloodletting to be barbaric and cruel 
but who am i to argue with results

there are two ways of living and 
he is both of them,
wrapping his passion in
facts
and
numbers.

there are two ways of living and
i am neither of them,
like a star,
burning itself into oblivion.

he calculates and mourns
the fury of my dying,
writes it into poetry
and reports,
but i do not read,
and he does not speak
in silence,
without words.

i have no desire to be clean 
but there are lifeguards
and environmentalists
and it’s difficult to drown filthy
in the bath

likeafieldmouse:

Natt Rozanska - Night Writing (2012)

Text reads: “This doesn’t compare to the feel of your skin”