1:32 AM
this is a very long poem that is important to me


close your eyes. you’re walking into a church for the first time,
you’re seven years old. there’s scratchy tights on your legs
that rub up against your new skirt and make you self-conscious.
an old woman with bible-paper skin puts her hand against your cheek
and says, ‘what a darling, welcome to the Lord’s house’.
you flinch because you weren’t expecting her, and she smiles
no apologies your way.

there are men in suits and women in long, conservative dresses
and at least four of them are looking at their watches. the others
are looking at you. you cross your hands in your lap and look
at the stain glass. it’s shaking from the deep organ notes.
you decide you want to play the organ like that man does,
all full and loud. big enough to shake windows.

you’re coralled with the other children to sunday school.
the bible-paper woman is talking to you about Jesus,
tells you that all the good children will be with him in heaven
because he died. She tells you that the good children are the ones
who say their prayers every night and are nice to their parents.
You ask what happens to the bad children, and she says,
'they will burn in hell'.

you wonder what a prayer is but are too afraid to ask. you wonder
what happens if you don’t have parents, but are too afraid to ask.
she says, ‘come here, child, tell Jesus you love him’.
this is the first time you wonder what love means.

close your eyes. you’re walking into a church for the first time,
you’re twenty five years old. there’s nothing on your legs but guilt.
your feet are pressed into a new pair of heels and it makes you feel
very visible. an old man with branding iron hands puts his arm out
to hold you and says, ‘we haven’t seen you lately, where have you been?’
you flinch because you were expecting anger, and he smiles
no explanations your way.

there are women your age with husbands in the front row,
and at least two of them have new babies. the others
are looking at you. you play with the ring on your middle finger
and look at the stain glass. it doesn’t look magnificent now.
you didn’t learn the organ. instead you learned
how to love a woman, all full and loud. big enough to shake windows.

you watch the children crowd into the basement,
wonder if they’re learning the same things you did
from another bible-paper woman.

you want to teach them that not everyone has one mom and
one dad. that the word ‘parents’ can just mean ‘people who love you’
and everyone has those.
but niceness is not a price you have to pay to receive love
especially if they dont deserve it.

you want to teach them what prayer is. that prayer is the sound
your lover makes when you’re barely touching them.
it is the space you make by moving over when they need to stretch.
it is the art of listening softly to everyone,
even the ‘bad kids’.

open your eyes. you’re lying next to your lover,
it’s 6 am.
if you squint a little, she looks like a naked, sunkissed Jesus.
arms spread in a lilted cross shape,
you wonder if she really needs to die in order to love you.

she wakes up and smiles at you. you think,
no, she loves me because she stays.

2:03 AM


Hello. How are you. Hello.




Heather Christle is a favorite poet of mine. These are from The Trees The Trees, which you should buy and read, again and again, so you can finally vomit some feelings out of your gut all over the subway.

1:16 PM


not that i’m a believer in ‘calling yourself beautiful as revolutionary praxis’ but the way black people affirm and reaffirm their beauty drastically differs from the way other races do b/c our hair, skin, features, skin color, body types, and features overall were/are a fulcrum of our denigration and dehuminization so when we say we’re beautiful and no compares to us it’s actually true

(via saintjanet)

1:00 PM"Sitcom laughs always freaked him out. Because most of those people are dead. Those are ghost laughs. Laughs that are supposed to be gone forever linger on earth after every mid 90s joke about teenage sex or someone saying “don’t go there”. Looking for their mouths, never finding them because they’re gone. The laughs don’t feel good because they’re dead laughs. Those laughs aren’t what they stood for anymore. They’ve been reappropriated. Now they’re just sounds monkey descendants make when amused to cue other monkey descendants when to make the sounds at home."

— Childish Gambino- Because the internet script (via spooky-wolf)
1:03 AM

important: it doesn’t matter

1:01 AM

sometimes i hate the whole rooming-with-people thing because i always feel like we share one big general mood

12:47 AM"I read the poem of a student and in the poem God wandered through a room picking up random objects—a pear, a vase, a shoe—and in bewilderment said, “I made this?”. Apparently God had forgotten making anything at all. I awarded this poem a prize, because I was a judge of such matters. I was not really awarding the student, I was awarding God; I knew someday the student would pick up his old poem and say in bewilderment, “I made this?”, and at that moment his whole world would be lost in the twilight, and when you are finally lost in the twilight, you cannot judge anything."

— Mary Ruefle, “On Twilight” (via unknowmenclature)

(via bzzbzzwhrrlclick)

12:23 PM
11:37 AM"oh man, i hate this part, when the car sails off the bridge. am i the knuckles white inside? or am i the water rushing in?"

— (via pvnch-drvnk)
1:45 AM

roommates code for ‘i need the room’ is always usually ‘what are you up to this weekend’

1:06 AM"And even when you laughed, you cried. And even when you were sad, you were really happy."

— (via vivo-da-sole)
12:47 AM"Would you believe in what you believe in if you were the only one who believed it?"

— Kanye West  (via wvyrv)

(Source: geee-skrilla, via kdecember)