georgia says you're never coming back
Anonymous: I'm a new writer. Critique me like one of your French girls.

oh rose

4 days ago | 8 notes

It’s July in New York City
and I’m sitting in my bathtub,
mermadic, mercurial, water running
cold, fully clothed. The cookies in my hand
crumbled down the drain, the cut on my lip fresh,
still bleeding.

I wanted a fairy tale and instead I was tied
to rail road tracks and nobody cut me free.
The train never came but that’s not the point.
I wanted to crawl into your spinal cord.

I wanted to drink you like malt liquor,
like we’re too broke to afford real beer
so we buy 4Locos and forty’s from the bodega
on 8th Ave,and the girls unbutton their shirts
and the boys hold their breath

to make their chests look bigger
and the guy at the counter looks away
from his soap opera, tells us to show ID or fuck off,
because we’re like snakes in new skin,

we still don’t fit properly,
our bones haven’t adjusted yet.
Also, something about our eyes, flickered down,
voices too strong as we point to the cigarettes,
pulling crumpled bills from our pockets,
faintly shaking fingers. It’s okay.

Tommy will pull bottles from his father’s cabinet,
Anna will hide the handles beneath her bed.
We’re never there when they get caught,
when mothers contemplate rehab or military academy
or foreign countries.

In Morocco, my grandfather had three horses
and one of them, the youngest one, kicked my uncle
in the back one morning and killed him.
After burying her son, my grandmother put her hand
in the horse’s mouth and pulled out it’s tongue.

We’re never there when mother’s break down
doors and force fingers down throats,
when girls with bunny ears vomit on leather seats,
when we’re forced into bathrooms, into bathtubs,

water spraying across our face like open fire hydrants
in July in New York City, children, real children,
not like me, dancing in it’s light.

4 days ago | 175 notes

wait what the fuck shia labeouf isnt the guy from boy meets world wh at who the fuck is that guy

4 days ago | 4 notes
devil in a red dress (granny wolf)

wildflowerveins:

i.

i was sitting on a porch in late december, my voice in a jar of dead fireflies. when i was 14, i wanted to be the type of girl who kissed boys in carpeted basements (sweaty palms, the type of girl who let boys touch their shoulders, sweaty palms). i’m trying to write something honest. i don’t like the taste of cinnamon. i think cigarettes are disgusting. i asked him to teach me how to smoke because i thought it’d make him like me. my voice, cinnamon.

the street lights were flickering, casting orange on dying grass. when i was 14, the woodcutter pulled stones from my chest. i ate choke berries, fingers blue, lips blue, ophelia blue. i’m trying to write something honest. 

ii.


my best friend thinks i write about my mother too much. i write about everyone too much. i dream about someone else’s war. i dream about sucker punches, rubbing alcohol, yellow bruises on tan skin. the double meaning of siren. jolly sailors with wooden teeth, nails for jaws, scarred knuckles, sea sick sons. the daughters wave from the bay, taste tar, bake too many loaves of bread.

iii.

road trip to florida. circa early childhood. we slept in our car, near a gas station. greasy chinese food for breakfast. a diner. or two. floral ground floor motel rooms. drained pools. ping pong with a ripped net, my mother smiled with teeth then. clementines from a stand on the side of the road. we left two twenties and took a crate with us. georgia said you’re never coming back. georgia has never looked so sweet.

iv.

the way you look should be a sin 

my math teacher, leather seats, a ride home. dry bread and cheese. the highway like light. my mouth a runaway dog (trailer parks, drowning children, a puppy dog who couldn’t reach the well). the next day, i said “teach me?”.  i’m learning the new faces of disappointment every day. 

v. 

i’m trying to write something honest.  

5 days ago | 1,061 notes

wow it’s so weird how badly i used to want him and now i look at him and just get really sad but good sad, like a i pity you i’m glad i missed that bullet sadm not i still want you sad

5 days ago | 35 notes
It’s July in New York City
and I’m sitting in my bathtub,
mermadic, mercurial, water running cold, 
fully clothed. The cookies in my hand crumbled 
down the drain, the cut on my lip fresh, still bleeding. 

I wanted a fairy tale and instead  I was tied to rail road tracks 
and nobody cut me free. The train never came 
but that’s not the point. I wanted to crawl into your spinal cord. 
 
I wanted to drink you like malt liquor, 
like we’re too broke to afford real beer so we buy 4Locos 
and forty’s from the bodega on 8th Ave,
and the girls unbutton their shirts and the boys hold their breaths
to make their chests look bigger and the guy at the counter looks away 
from his soap opera, tells us to show ID or fuck off,  
 
because we’re like snakes in new skin, 
we still don’t fit properly, our bones haven’t adjusted yet. 
Also, something about our eyes, flickered down, 
voices too strong as we point to the cigarettes,
pulling crumpled bills from our pockets, faintly shaking fingers.

It’s okay. Tommy will pull bottles from his father’s cabinet,
Anna will hide the handles beneath her bed. We’re never
there when they get caught, when mothers contemplate
rehab or military academy or foreign countries. 

In Morocco, my grandfather had three horses and one of them,
the youngest one, kicked my uncle in the back one morning 
and killed him.  After burying her son, my grandmother put her hand 
in the horse’s mouth and pulled out it’s tongue.

We’re never there when mother’s break down doors 
and force fingers down throats, when girls with bunny ears 
vomit on leather seats, when we’re forced into bathrooms,
into bathtubs,  water spraying across our face like open fire hydrants 
in July in New York City, children, real children, not like me, 
dancing in it’s light.

5 days ago | 175 notes

krisjener:

can we talk about the lyrics in lorde’s song 400 lux???

image

????

tbh i love these lyrics. i listened to pure heroine from top to bottom a few times and i think it is a really brilliant, really well-written album. a lot of her other songs focus on “normal people things” like white teeth teens and how she and her group of friends are underdogs who get fucked up and do fucked up things and these lyrics kind of just portray her search to being normal and how fake it is, how she’s dreaming of becoming one of those white teeth teens and how it never actually works out bcus that’s not who she is. 

5 days ago | 97,108 notes
Anonymous: So the only reason you write is because everything you wish you could be doing, you can't do so you just settled with writing? I don't understand how that is true passion.

not the only reason lmaooo. i never had any interest in dance or acting. i write because it’s my art form, it’s my way of expressing myself. i loved it when i was shitty at it and i love it now when i’m still shitty but not as shitty and i’ll love it when im like 98 and i cant even remember my last name anymore.

6 days ago | 15 notes
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