Jessica Green
21 year old nanny who writes about her feelings a lot and performs them through poetry sometimes. I also truly believe guacamole and girls supporting girls are the keys to the universe.
When you’re young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You’re your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too - leave them behind. You don’t yet know about the habit they have, of coming back. Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you’ve been.
—Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via namasteh)
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
—Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky,” via the Poetry Foundation (via bostonpoetryslam)
(via pou-voir)
Everything I write lately is bloated with sadness.
When you try to love the world but she’s all fists,
all gut, all blood. I don't know what to do
with all of my black girl grief–
maybe auction it off, maybe bottle it, maybe just
let it sit in the sun and heat up and cool down again.
Let it congeal against the sides of the bowl
and scrape it off to start over again the next day.
I get off the bus ten stops early so that I can make
the long walk home, feel the ground hard and sure
beneath my aching feet. I smell like flour,
dough, rosemary, the oven that cooks the pizzas.
I like how everyone looks at night: warm and drunk
and happy, even the trees. I take off my lonely
like a bodysuit and put it where I keep my sweaters.
I gargle with salt. I moisturize with honey.
I remember the bodies that came before mine,
the bodies that made it possible for my body
to be here now. My friends and I are so pleased
with these parties we throw for ourselves.
We toast to them at our next awful brunch.
—Kristina Haynes, “My Grief is Available For Pre-Order” (via fleurishes)
(via pou-voir)
The story goes that magnolias are for when
you are hurtling to a ground you didn't expect
to see. It’s a number hanging around the neck.
I am a walking echo of home. I haven't learned
to grow laurels for myself. I know when to shatter
& cut light down from the afternoon sun.
The knife singing tender for my body.
—Ana Carrizo, “On Turning Twenty-Five” (after Billy Collins)
I think it’s fascinating that there’s this level of creation that is involved with that, versus just saying, ‘I’m going to go out and I’m going to get it.’ I’m so excited about where we’re moving now with sexuality and masculinity and femininity really being a scale.
this is how everything begins, blindly clawing at the light with a desire to hold it in your hands.
(via elvedon)