So She Sayz

Some days you will feel dirty!
Some days you’ll remember how hard it is to breathe in public, like your heart beat is climbing to the attic of your throat only to suicide
itself on the pavement.
But know this:
The person who did this to you is broken, not you.
The person who did this to you is out there, somewhere choking on the glass of his chest, it is a windshield, and his heart is a baseball bat saying, wreck this, wreck this.
NOTHING WAS STOLEN FROM YOU.

Your body is not a hand-me-down
There is nothing that sits inside you, holding your worth.
No locket that can be seen or touched,
sucked from your stomach and left on the concrete.

And I know it’s hard to feel perfect,
when you can’t tell an Adam’s apple from a fist
because some ash tray of a man picked you to play his Eden.

But I will not
watch you
collapse.

—SIERRA DEMULDER, “Paper Dolls” (via sammyclay)

My father has been dry for fourteen years, and he tells me,
‘An alcoholic is always an alcoholic, and sober is just another word for thirsty.’
my hands are too thirsty to admit on paper the last time I etched regret into my leg because the blade is still in me.
This sickness is still in me, and everyday it calls to me to open up and let it breathe.

—SIERRA DEMULDER, “Werewolf” (via sammyclay)

Almost Interesting: one a.m. - Sierra DeMulder

hesitantromantic:

she is the kind of shaken

that makes me feel perfect:

pale and empty like the frames of barns

about to be torn down,

but the girl isn’t old.

she bleeds green sapling branches,

beautifully disheveled and harmfully ignorant

to how cold the winter will be.

she drinks bottles of wine like…

submarine dreams: see me.

submarinedreams:

The feeling of lips against mine,
It’s a drug and I’m
Going through withdrawals, they
Leave my lip trembling, nervous,
And I stare at yours.
Do you notice?
My eyes don’t stray. I don’t
Want your body, I only want
That mouth against my ear, that
Tongue between my teeth,
Your breath, your scent,…

I want a soulmate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.

—Henry Rollins  (via the-noir-gentleman)

(Source: saras-vati, via barefootkrys)

“But just as we can all agree on what is red, even if we will never know if we each see it in the same way, so we can all agree - can’t we? - that no matter how confident we may appear to others, inside we are all sobbing, scared and uncertain for much of the time. Or perhaps it’s just me.

Oh God, perhaps it really is just me.

Actually it doesn’t really matter, when you come to think of it. If it is just me, then you are reading the story of some weird freak. You are free to treat this book like science fiction, fantasy or exotic travel literature. Are there really men like Stephen Fry on this planet? Goodness, how alien some people are. And if I am not alone, then neither are you, and hand in hand we can marvel together at the strangeness of the human condition.”

“None of this is important in itself, but I feel somewhere that it has a lot to do with why I have always felt separate, why I have always felt unable to join in, to let go, to become part of the tribe, why I have always sniped or joked from the sidelines, why I have never, ever, lost my overwhelmingly self-conscious self-consciousness.

It’s not all that bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing - they are not all bad. Those devils have also been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.”