This too shall pass.
Sarah.
There are so many stories I could tell you.
six word poem 4/21/14

atonguewithbutsixwords:

Prompt: “You wrote once that ‘there are stretchmarks on our souls.’  I’ve been feeling that a lot lately.  Can I use that feeling, your words, as a prompt, Six?  Because there ARE stretchmarks on our souls…”

But only
when we
grow, darlin’.

Stand and face me, my love,
and scatter the grace that’s in your eyes.
— Sappho, excerpt of To a Handsome Man (via petrichour)
April 25, 2013

misandrist—mermaid:

Eleven months have passed and I can still feel the reverberation of all the moments I never thought I’d have—murmuring under silky sheets, morning breath-laced i love you’s, soft kisses along brow bones. Sometimes I can feel this day before I fall asleep, pressed up against me, brushing the baby hairs away from the nape of my neck. It’s the before. Before the kiss, the innocent curling of bodies, the waking up next to each other. It is the last day for almost a year where you were not the first thing on my mind. It is the last day I will not have known the feel of your lips, the weight of your body, the unfurling of your limbs next to mine. It is the day before all the most important days. I can barely remember it, but it matters. It is a glimpse of what could have been if you had not kissed me, if we had not fumbled our way into something better. 

There’s 7 billion 46 million people on the planet
And most of us have the audacity to think we matter
Hey, you hear the one about the comedian who croaked?
Someone stabbed him in the heart, just a little poke
But he keeled over ‘cause he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes
Hey, you hear the one about the screenwriter who passed away?
He was giving elevator pitches and the elevator got stuck halfway
He ended up eating smushed sandwiches they pushed through a crack in the door
And repeating the same crappy screenplay idea about talking dogs ‘til his last day
Hey, you hear the one about the fisherman who passed?
He didn’t jump off that ledge
He just stepped out into the air and pulled the ground up towards him really fast
Like he was pitching a line and went fishing for concrete
The earth is a drum and he’s hitting it on beat

The reason there’s smog in Los Angeles is ‘cause if we could see the stars
If we could see the context of the universe in which we exist
And we could see how small each one of us is
Against the vastness of what we don’t know
No one would ever audition for a McDonalds commercial again

And then where would we be?
No frozen dinners and no TV
And is that a world we want to text in?
Either someone just microwaved popcorn
Or I hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid succession
The people are hunched over in Boston
They’re starting app stores and screen printing companies in San Francisco
They’re grinning in Los Angeles like they’ve got fishhooks in the corners of their mouth

But don’t paint me like the good guy ‘cause every time I write
I get to choose the angle that you view me and select the nicest light
You wouldn’t respect me if you heard the typewriter chatter tap tap
Tapping through my mind at night
The same stupid tape loop of old sitcom dialogue
And tattered memories of a girl I got to grind on in high school
Filed carefully on rice paper
My heart is a colored pencil
But my brain is an eraser

I don’t want a real girl, I want to trace her from a catalog
Truth be told I’m unlikely to hold you down
Cause my soul is a crowded subway train
And people keep deciding to get on the next one that rolls through town
I’m joining a false movement in San Francisco
I’m frowning and hunched over in Boston
I’m smiling in Los Angeles like I’ve got fishhooks in the corners of my mouth

And I’m celebrating on weekends
Because there are 7 billion 47 million people on the planet
And I have the audacity to think I matter
I know it’s a lie but I prefer it to the alternative
Because I’ve got a tourniquet tied at my elbow
I’ve got a blunt wrap filled with compliments and I’m burnin’ it
You say to go to sleep but I been bouncing off my bedroom walls since I was hecka small
We’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls
My mother is an 8 year old girl
My grandson is a 74 year old retiree whose kidneys just failed

And that’s the glue between me and you
That’s the screws and nails
We live in a house made of each other
And if that sounds strange that’s because it is
Someone please freeze time so I can run around turning everyone’s pockets inside out
And remember, you didn’t see shit
— George Watsky, Tiny Glowing Screens Part 2 (via hemingwaywasjusthere)
Fifteen
I am fifteen years old. I grew up with dirt roads and best friends, sunburnt shoulders in summer and candy on our tongues. I did not learn to appreciate this place until I realized that roots are nothing to be embarrassed of, just like stretch marks. “Stretch marks are like lightning tattoos,” I overheard one day, and that was when I decided to tattoo my hometown into my veins. The air of summer in the country is sweet and harsh because I always had blood on my mind, sitting on the edge of the cliff at Stop 13 and praying for my lost friends. This was a time before I knew what praying meant, but their names and voices were tattooed on the inside of my lips and tongue, stinging each time I tried to forget them. Eventually, the sunburns faded into freckled memories, a pinprick of a tattoo for each day we spent outside, learning how to be proud of our roots and our prayers.

Fifteen

I am fifteen years old. I grew up with dirt roads and best friends, sunburnt shoulders in summer and candy on our tongues. I did not learn to appreciate this place until I realized that roots are nothing to be embarrassed of, just like stretch marks. “Stretch marks are like lightning tattoos,” I overheard one day, and that was when I decided to tattoo my hometown into my veins. The air of summer in the country is sweet and harsh because I always had blood on my mind, sitting on the edge of the cliff at Stop 13 and praying for my lost friends. This was a time before I knew what praying meant, but their names and voices were tattooed on the inside of my lips and tongue, stinging each time I tried to forget them. Eventually, the sunburns faded into freckled memories, a pinprick of a tattoo for each day we spent outside, learning how to be proud of our roots and our prayers.

please
tell me which part of yourself
you hate the most
so I know exactly where to plant my lips
every time I see you

six word poem 4/2/13

atonguewithbutsixwords:

Prompt: “I’m terrified, and yet, hopelessly in love with a man.  I feel fortified and safe in him while at the same time I do feel a bit frightened by his potential.

Write me one of your poems, Six.”

Fearing loneliness,
she 
married
her
scarecrow.