facinaoris reblogged
doom yourself before the narrative does
facinaoris reblogged
It’s not an atomic number, your name,
it codes no secret core of you. Your name
doesn’t know any language of light, thick-tongued
like a spent tennis shoe; it holds no shape, your name.
Kill it and still there’s rising in the morning,
dark tea, sitting, never even thinking of your name.
Trevor Ketner, “Anatta Ghazal,” published in The Baffler
facinaoris reblogged
they will call you forked tongue. let them.
swallow your blood and bare your teeth, they are seeds.
you are made of rings, ancient
you have always been here
what is a field of weeds to an entire eco-system?
Jess Rizkallah, “aphorisms for lonely arabs,” from the magic my body becomes
facinaoris reblogged
forgive yourself again and again and again and again and again
facinaoris reblogged
I am still trying to forgive the world/for not letting me live forever.
When I was younger I thought death/was just misunderstanding.
I thought when bad things happen/there will be witnesses.
Nancy Huang, “Nyquil Dreams,” from Favorite Daughter
facinaoris reblogged
i know i’m getting old bc i feel a need to warn young girls not to do stuff
facinaoris reblogged
muppethole-deactivated20240312
i love telling people "godspeed" it adds so much weight and dignity to everything i'll say it to a friend driving cross country or a coworker grabbing lunch from the corner store like good luck bitch!! may the road rise to meet you and the wind be at your back!!!
facinaoris reblogged
black horror: gothic romance - “something terrible haunts this house.”
facinaoris reblogged
Ghosts in the vocabulary.
Sorrow is a mansion.
A burning bush in the middle
of a transcendental bar fight.
The known universe
is saying Fuck, softly
into the unknown universe.
Bianca Stone, “Elegy with a Swear Word,” from The Möbius Strip Club of Grief
facinaoris reblogged
I must be so clean God can touch me without getting a finger dirty. God says fast and pray. I tell God I’m hungry.
I like to eat.
Claudia Wilson, “Broken Hymn,” from Grown
facinaoris reblogged
You come from a braided clan of women
who held their tongues with their teeth.
You tasted their blood in your sleep,
women who planted their visions
on the tongues of their daughters.
Tonight’s Cantab feature is local educator and writer Krysten Hill! This is from her poem “Women Who Go Missing,” via the New England Poetry Club.
facinaoris reblogged
To be honest, we’re all more afraid of love than we
may believe. Sometimes, I laugh because I’ve been seen.
Tonight’s Cantab feature is 2019 Boston Poetry Slam team member Terah Ehigiator! Look for some special illustrated chapbooks from each team member headed your way soon.
facinaoris reblogged
grief is an animal. we all know that. but which animal
exactly? what kingdom, what family, is it ever a fish?
does its voice change as it leaves the body or is there
a bestiary somewhere in the chest?
sam sax, “Babe the Pig Does the Sheep-Noise When Mourning the Sheep,” published in Granta
facinaoris reblogged
queen-breha-organa-archived-dea
Goodnight to: bitches who cry a lot, people who feel under appreciated but are too shy to say anything to their friends, girlies who hate sparkling water, short people, people who are allergic to fruits, girls with asthma, Boys who need glasses, black cats, koi fish, average height kings, people who are so starved of affection any form of love makes them physically sick even though all the want in life is to be loved, people who love popcorn-
facinaoris reblogged
they say you should not remove
foreign objects from the body for fear
it will bleed out, but you entered
and removed and re-entered
and re-moved yourself
as if trying to make me live,
or else. There comes
a time when, just to feel,
a girl will put anything
between her legs.
Eloisa Amezcua, “Boy,” from From The Inside Quietly
facinaoris reblogged
we owe no one shame.
we owe no one smallness.
Raquel Salas Rivera, “the independence (of puerto rico),” via the Academy of American Poets
facinaoris reblogged
be honest. the wounds have been bearable
thus far. & who isn’t bruised around the edges,
peaches poured into the truckbed, receipts
faded to white? i have only ever wanted to bite
down hard on whatever was offered to my hot,
grasping mouth.
Franny Choi, “& O, bright star of disaster, I have been lit,” published in The Paris-American