“Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”—Sylvia Plath (via entirely)
do you ever cry because you’ve somehow managed to gain a truly fucking amazing person as your friend? and just think about how fucking blessed you are for their existence and how in some previous life you must have done something fucking amazing to deserve them in this life? DO YOU?
does masturbation count as exercise if so then yes i’m very athletic
when i was in high school we had to do exercise logs for gym credits in order to graduate and one kid in my school wrote that he masturbated 5 hours a week every single week and he got the credits because as long as his mom signed off on it it was considered valid exercise
“One of the hardest things about being a poet
is picking up guys, see
you can’t just walk up to someone and say
“hi. I really like something about your ears and I was wondering
what do you think god is made of?”
You can’t just go home with someone and say
“I know you’re trying to get laid, but
I was wondering,
how do you feel about looking at your window
and making up stories for the people who walk by
or laying in your bed and telling me about your childhood,
I know it’s small but I don’t mind you being close to me
I’m not crazy,
yes, I know we just met.”
One of the hardest things about being a poet
is I’ve wrote a million poems about yes.
I have thousands of poems about how I want you
to grab me and kiss me and tell me I’m yours, but
I’ve never written a poem for no.
They tell me I have a way with words, but the truth is,
I’m just reciting the lines and there isn’t a clever metaphor or rhyme
for please get your tongue out of my throat.
I shouldn’t have gone home with you.
There is no play on words
for when you ask me if I want to take this to your room
my voice box becomes as useful as air to a fish
so I nod.
My poems tell me to nod, my outfit tells me to nod, I came home with you,
so I must want to go to your room, right?
The feminist in me is screaming,
my face is screaming,
you ask me if I’m ok
you really are a nice guy
and I just keep nodding
everything is alright.
When you finish,
you kiss me.
Then you look at my eyes for the first time all night
wipe away my tears
ask me if I was crying.
I laugh. Of course not.
The truth is my tongue knows how to give you
exactly what you want but
it doesn’t know how to form the words
“you have the same smile as my ex boyfriend
and fucking you makes me cry.”
I am a poet.
I have millions of words racing through my mind
at 160 mph every second
so I think “no” might have gotten stuck in traffic
somewhere between my mind in my mouth
I thought you would see it in my eyes.
I didn’t mean to make you into my monster.
When you kissed me goodbye
I think you could finally taste it on my lips.”—