“As women, we are taught to be tiny. To have small bodies, to never be imposing. The ideal of our gender are thin and childlike, hairless and dainty. We are defined by our bodies; defined by our control over them. We are taught to obsess over our physicality and to be repulsed by our desires and intelligences.
We are taught to walk scared late at night. We cradle our keys between our perfectly manicured fingers, walking gracefully like a baby antelope in a herd of lions. That our virginity defines our character. That I am a frigid “bitch” if I do not fuck him, and a dirty “slut” if I do.”—
part of me wants to wear leather jackets and red lipstick and be super sexy and break boys’ hearts but then I also want to wear sundresses and be sweet and cute and shy and giggly but a different part of me wants to be beautiful and smart and mysterious and another part of me just wants to sit in bed and watch netflix while I eat pizza
someday, someone will love the fuck outta you; love your crazy point of view, love you when you’re feeling blue, they’ll love everything you do. someone true, someday soon. someone true, someday soon. someday, someone will love the fuck outta you; i will if you want me to.
ten things i wish i had told myself before attending a speed dating event at a bookstore.
i. you are not smooth.
ii. you are however, wayyy more smooth than the guy that showed up with the chekhov novels in hand and stared at you quietly (awkwardly) for the entire date after the basic name introductions happened.
iii. speaking of names, you get a literary name for this event! you will be the only one who uses it. everyone else will realize that your actual name is the important part, and will look confused when you introduce yourself with “hi! tonight i’m fake anna!”
iv. don’t draw attention to the guy with the really sweaty palms. he’ll do it for you… by whispering it.
v. boys with accents and good taste in books are toooootally real. don’t stare.
vi. there will be normal, cute, learned dudes that you’ll meet! you will wish you were less awkward at first introduction, and you will wish that you had more than six minutes to try and convey that fact.
vii. upon learning that you work in music, no less than two grown men will then make reference to justin beiber.
viii. you will get at LEAST three good book recommendations, even if you do not end up with anyone’s phone number.
ix. only one person will acknowledge your joy division t-shirt; he will likely be the only person in the room with whom you share any mutual friends, he will definitely be lady gaga’s former dj.
x. you are neurotic, but you are still able to hold a conversation. take a deep breath, learn from this, and move on. someone, somewhere, will click with you soon.
1. i fell out of love with you this morning six months late, sitting through a watered down version of a time when i’d write poems about what i thought space meant and hands going where they shouldn’t
2. i fell out of love with you when our nightly walks became weekly (we’re nearing monthly) and i can’t bring myself to miss you like I did before.
3. i fell out of love with you when i found that i resented the things that drew me in (i loved the way you’d share yourself with everyone) but now i hate the way you’d spread your affection so thin that there was none left by the time we found each other every night, long after everyone went to sleep because we wanted to keep this a secret (i used to love that too).
4. everyone told me to stop loving you but i had to figure this one out for myself.
“I think you’ll find a girl who exhales answers instead of a never-ending stream of questions, one whose hands aren’t always ink-stained, one whose heart doesn’t live in her throat, one whose demons are small enough to be tucked into the back of her closet, sealed in a box, only let out once or twice a year when she’s drunk off of cheap wine, a girl who doesn’t feel like her head is going to explode every day, who doesn’t dream about the kitchen knives. You’ll find a girl who doesn’t write poems for you, but that’s okay because she smiles all the time and there is always light in her eyes, never a thunderstorm.
I will try not to blame you when you find this girl because now that I know what a horrible place my own mind is, I could never ask someone else to want to stay there too.”—Fortesa Latifi - You’ll Find a Girl
is he here? are you making out? I can hear you guys on the couch; shut up, and make out to something already I’m waiting. after reading that text from your friend, I start losing all of my confidence. so I’ll stay tired, I know soon I’ll be bailing. then you, you ask if I gotta leave and I wish that I could say no. my head is on the verge of exploding - no amount of aspirin or pizza could help this from hurting. and now I’m turning to you scared shitless, hoping this all goes well. can we highlight the fact that my mouth smells like coffee and garlic? the five cups I head this morning are getting to me (I gotta go, I got the worst fucking spins). then you, you ask if I gotta leave and I wish that I could say no, but we’re so caught up in the moment and I just need a second to catch my god damn breath - (fuck it) - to hell with the spins, I’m stayin’. there’s no good reason why I should leave your bed tomorrow, we can watch planet earth and brainstorm tattoos. to hell with class, I’m skippin’, let’s order food and sleep in. I’ve got so much to do but it’s okay, cause whatever, forever.
i know that you noticed me.
years ago, months ago, days ago, minutes ago.
you noticed. so did i. and yet.
we just couldn’t / just quietly / just never put it all together.
i could have grazed my fingers along the curve of your spine back then, run them through the strands of your hair back then, learnt the indents of your hips back then, instead of using these digits to type messages that i know don’t subtract miles. i imagine how it would have been to take deep breaths with you, lock eyes with you; be forehead to forehead, mouth to mouth with you, had we just / if we just / why didn’t we just / just, goddamn.
(can’t you feel it, still?)
but darlin’, darlin’, oh darlin’; we should have held hands back then. back before you slyly slipped me your self-serving apologies / your sympathy / your placating plate of affirmation. at the end of the day, after every asinine conversation, you walk away from your phone, sign out of the chat, turn off the world’s notifications, and curl up with another warm body.
it isn’t mine.
i am not the one sharing your bed / the one clutching your thighs / the one stealing your books / the one caressing your brow / the one holding your hand.
(trust me. i’ve thought about it.)
and so over and over again, it repeats - “i only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me.”
I can’t wait for Hillary to pull a BEYONCÉ. No promo, no campaign, no nothing. We will all just be sitting on twitter with our thumbs up our asses when our timeline suddenly starts to fill with the news that Hillary Rodham Clinton is now President Hillary Rodham Clinton. Slayed the game, and we weren’t even ready for it.