heck yeah long live short haired girls
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Tonight, poets, let’s turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this.
With your airplane parts.
And repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
I’m new to this,
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
I have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
That if our hearts
every time we fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m havin’ a fantastic time.” —Buddy Wakefield-We Were Emergencies
my male friends can treat me any way they like and yeah i’ll be mad about it but i always make an effort to repair things (with a few exceptions).
female friends can basically go to hell once they’ve upset me. maybe i’ll still be nice to them to their face but internally i burn with rage that they still think they’re worthy of my acknowledgment.
it’s 2 am and i am on some heavy medication because i’m sick so i think sharing this with the internet is a good idea because i’m trying to figure out how i can want only the best for my sex/gender and yet treat the females closest to me like shit.
failed feminist. i don’t know if it’s because i demand so much more from females so any disappointment from them is unacceptable and boys, well, i just expect them to fail me so i forgive them every time. i think that’s it. shit.
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
—Song of the Open Road (1)
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)