11:57 pm 693 notes
I tell you you have the same name as someone I hate so that is how I will remember you.
I am the girl with the flowery legs. That’s just my leggings, I say, you shake your head.
My friend is vomiting into the toilet and I should probably go.
Do you want to smoke a j, you ask, and I wonder if your roommate told you more about me than I thought. I always want to smoke a j.
When I am drunk, and with a guy, I maintain this level of almost freakish detachment and I am so, so cool down to my bones. I fade in and out and I wind around and I don’t get stuck on anything. I flow. I wish I could be like this when I am sober. When I am drunk, everybody wants me, and it electrifies me. I have a little sexy half-smile that only comes out when I’m drunk.
We walk back to your house with your other friend and we talk as you roll the joints and then he sits on the mattress and we sit in two chairs facing each other and smoke them. This is the moment I realize we’re going to hook up tonight. You pull my legs into your lap and run your fingers up and down my legs and they get higher and higher until you’re pressing them against my inner thigh and we’re just staring at each other with watery, decided blue eyes as your roommate talks about his internship.
And then he says he needs to take his contacts out which is a lie, probably.
You’re cute, you say. Maybe a thousand times.
I’ll take off mine if you take off yours, you say.
You have a tattoo on your chest and I ask about it and you explain it but I can hardly picture it now, let alone remember what it means.
Our mouths are dry from the pot but the kissing is good, so good. When you lock the door and turn off the lights our bodies are just lit by the moon peering through the skylight and I know I am very drunk but it is so beautiful.
You’re a few years older than me and I’d forgotten what that would mean, maybe—that you’re actually good at this, that you know what you’re doing, that when your teeth slide over my breasts or when your fingers slide over my slickness that it could be good, that it could be this good. I make little sounds that I claim I only make when drunk (this is a lie) and you’re pleased and you leave a round hickey on my neck that my friend tells me looks like a Pac-Man when I’m brushing my teeth the next day.
I never take off my flowered leggings, you just work under and over them, squeezing my bare ass on the sides of my thong. I paw at you as you do this but either you are too considerate or know that I am too drunk to do anything but receive.
I am slightly frantic when we fall asleep. I remember my friend that is puking and realize I left my phone at the other house where the party was. You tell me just to sleep for a little and I do. I wake up again still drunk and you pull me in and tell me I can’t leave at this hour it’s too late now…and then I wake up again and it’s the morning and I’m not drunk anymore and you help me find my bra and my shirt and you walk me downstairs and point in the direction of the house we came from where my phone still is and we kiss briefly. You try for longer but I pull away because it’s morning and I’m already bored with you.
A few weeks later, you give me a joint at another party where you’re rolling them. I pretend I don’t know your name.
11:38 pm 1 note
— Dorianne Laux, from Mattress Talk
10:33 pm 703 notes
This doesn’t have to be an arms race. One of us is not the U.S., and other is not Russia or China or India or whomever the competitor of the week is.
You know, maybe I’m just Sweden. I barely have a military. I am not worse than you if you still live as if you’re Russia. I’m not like you because I don’t want to be like you. Not because I can’t be, because I don’t have the will power or skill. It’s just not whatt I want. I want to be a Nordic state, boring and happy and going through my life without a ton of forethought. I don’t have to force myself to be a fore thinker like you if that is not what I am. In fact, I shouldn’t. It’s a disservice to me and the way I process and understand the world and it’s also a disservice to you.
2:46 am 5,510 notes
— Tori Amos, 8 June 1996 concert, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
4:09 am 36 notes
2:39 am 1,230 notes
Something I’ve been thinking about:
Men are always remembered for what they did
Women for what they didn’t do
She never thought of herself, she worked all day, she made sure everyone was happy and comfortable, she sacrificed herself for her family
He did this this and this and had her loving support
But I do want to think, especially of myself. I don’t want to be remembered for sacrifice I want to be remembered for things I did
Not some abstract concept of what makes a good person
2:37 am 6 notes
He says I’m too volatile for him. Part of me takes that as a compliment, while the other part just wants to cry.
2:45 am 1 note
2:31 am 10,187 notes
This is how I lie:
(all the heavy-lifting takes place in the space of second)
First, I remember to breathe. I think of the secret pure world as I know it;
Myself, out of breath in clingy athletic clothes six miles past the reservoir
Berry blood sliding down my left thigh and it is dusk and
My soul’s moss is wild and ragged and coarse
And I breathe again, a vivid mountain thought in my lungs
"Chest cogestion relief advertisement"
Then I think of him, the vampire
And the way he fingered my floral headband in his palm as we fucked
Radiant and dull; whichever one is beautiful
And I think of my trust for him, how I trust him in that extraordinary way you trust those who have clutched your breasts and stroked your nipples—
Your luminescent former lovers, your cold-handed pediatrician, your quiet, diligent mother.
I let that trust well up inside of me and drain itself out through my vagina until I am a withered, thirsty garden of a person whose eyes glint like you, and I let the lie glide out and it is even smoother than the menstrual blood and I betray no guilty cramps, no flash of a look of pain, no sweet sweat leakage through the holes of my cable-knit sweater
I know how to lie, I know how to lie so well and the way I lie to him is even more special because I simply forget there is truth. Not the truth specific to situation, but the concept altogether.
I abandon it out on the reservoir because I’ve learned the only way to live is to discard what scares you.
And the trick is to remember that,
But also not to.
5:39 pm 4 notes
— Elif Batuman, No Regrets (n + 1, 2013)
2:20 am 67 notes
12:15 am 8,566 notes
Somewhere inside me is a merciful, forgiving person. Somewhere there is a girl who tries to understand what people are going through, who accepts that people do evil things and that desperation leads them to darker places than they ever imagined. I swear she exists, and she hurts for the repentant boy I see in front of me.
But if I saw her, I wouldn’t recognize her.”
— Veronica Roth, Divergent
12:11 am 2 notes
I don’t write enough
I don’t do anything enough or all the way, anymore
12:08 am 1 note