starmaps:

careers to consider when I finish uni:

  • girl in 1960s Paris with winged eyeliner and a fringe who sits in cafes and bars and drinks sherry
  • WWII war nurse
  • muse for a late 19th century artist
  • archaeologist in the 30s
  • suffragette
  • background character in a Wodehouse story
  • incorporeal sense of vague dissatisfaction

(via the-eleventh-blog)

I stayed in bed for over an hour
looked at things on my phone
I felt slightly anxious about nothing particular
I walked downstairs and poured coffee into a jar
I asked a person on the internet if I should take drugs
I took drugs before the person had time to respond
I feel alienated by people who express concern about me without
defining their concern in terms of a specific solution or goal
I dont feel comforted by the idea of an afterlife
I dont want to continue experiencing things after I die
I want someone to pull my hair because I like the idea of someone
controlling my head without touching my head

What is the difference between being an independent person
and being a person who is accepting of loneliness?


Today My Alarm Went Off at 12:30 p.m. (Mira Gonzalez)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via thegraveyardpoets)

ufukorada:

Jan Ironside

ufukorada:

Jan Ironside

(via thelifeofalillylady)

“I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.”

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via pukeinmysneaker)

(Source: goodreads.com, via thegraveyardpoets)

It is raining today
in the mountains.

It is a warm green rain
with love
in its pockets
for spring is here,
and does not dream
of death.


Richard Brautigan, from “The Return of the Rivers” (via litverve)

(via thegraveyardpoets)

Across from me at the kitchen table,
my mother smiles over red wine that she drinks out of a measuring glass.
She says she doesn’t deprive herself,
but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork.
In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate.
I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it.
I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so.

Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional.
As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast.
She wanes while my father waxes.
His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry.
A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she’s “crazy about fruit.”

It was the same with his parents;
as my grandmother became frail and angular her husband swelled to red round cheeks, round stomach,
and I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking,
making space for the entrance of men into their lives,

not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave.

I have been taught accommodation.
My brother never thinks before he speaks.
I have been taught to filter.

“How can anyone have a relationship to food?” he asks, laughing, as I eat the black bean soup I chose for its lack of carbs.

I want to say: we come from difference, Jonas,
you have been taught to grow out,
I have been taught to grow in.

You learned from our father how to emit, how to produce,
to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence,
you used to lose your voice every other week from shouting so much.
I learned to absorb.
I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself.
I learned to read the knots in her forehead while the guys went out for oysters,
and I never meant to replicate her, but
spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits.

That’s why women in my family have been shrinking for decades.
We all learned it from each other, the way each generation taught the next how to knit,
weaving silence in between the threads
which I can still feel as I walk through this ever-growing house,
skin itching,
picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped
like bits of crumpled paper from her pocket on her countless trips from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom again.
Nights I hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark,
a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled.

Deciding how many bites is too many.
How much space she deserves to occupy.

Watching the struggle I either mimic or hate her,
And I don’t want to do either anymore,
but the burden of this house has followed me across the country.
I asked five questions in genetics class today and all of them started with the word “sorry.”
I don’t know the requirements for the sociology major because I spent the entire meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza,
a circular obsession I never wanted, but
inheritance is accidental,
still staring at me with wine-soaked lips from across the kitchen table.


Lily Myers - “Shrinking Women” (CUPSI 2013)

Watch the intense performance here.

(via gaywitchesforabortions)

(Source: cloudyskiesandcatharsis, via thegraveyardpoets)