I don’t think of you as mother at all.
Mother of otherness
Eat me.
Sylvia Plath, from Selected Poems; “Who,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)
(via violentwavesofemotion)
My dead lover is a splinter throbbing at dusk. A shard of castle rock frozen in a glass paperweight and doubted. At three in the morning, he raps his beak against my ear, and I wake up to the drill of silence. My dead lover is a suitcase of books I left on an eastbound train; a headlight’s afterimage. A starling dying over and over beneath my desk. A fish hook reeling me to the sun. Four years after he left, he is still spoon-feeding my heart back into my quivering mouth.
Franny Choi, “My Lovers,” from Floating, Brilliant, Gone (via bostonpoetryslam)
Daddy im so horny . PLease help me Anonymous
bitch im tryna survive a category 5 hurricane
