the banality of the evil dead


we spin
massacres into crusades
missiles into messiahs

there is no deadlier phrase than
"for the greater good"

freedom comes with a price

it is called subjugation

show us your identification
so that we can confirm
that you belong


land of the free WiFi
home of the brave new world

(via mermaidsbite)


the rainbow of you
is in my mouth
right now


and drinking deeply
from the soft warmth
of your mouth


Double Flower - Variation A, designed by Maria Sinayskaya - [diagram]

30 units, folded by me, no glue.


she is six years old & just told me
she’s fat & meant it.
It was no attention ploy.

Tears rolled down
Her cheeks as I held her
And assured her
‘You are not fat’

I told her how, long before I was born
Women and girls
Were soft, filled into their bodies
Curves were coveted
And the sharp lines of bones under flesh was a sign of hunger, weakness & disease
Health is beautiful.

I assure her, you are kind.
All our neighbours know you, love you.
We love you. You are goodness.
You run, you play, anxious to be
Outside adventuring everyday.
You are not fat!
You are healthy.
You are not slim, sleek, scrawny
But if you were
If you are healthy, this is okay too.
And I will love you, no matter
The size of your skin
But you, have that rare antique look.
You are an old fashioned beauty.
Classic, a vintage creature.
You look like a doll from 1950,
Before Twiggy.

The image she is bombarded by
Is imprinting her mind
It’s a social disease!
I fight it for her but I suddenly realize
I’m not winning.

It’s the injustice of the
modern image
of physical beauty
she can’t see beyond
the rib lines, skinny hips,
the waifs are still winning

And they take our daughters’
minds captive
I’m fighting to keep four daughters
From the prison of conformity
To loose them from the noose
of social imprisonment.
because I want to see them live.
really live, unshackled from this destructive devouring Beast of Beauty

—Itziar Verría

(via mermaidsbite)




I am (in) that place again, that underwater place.

Where I can’t breathe or feel an escape.

You may think I’d panic, struggle, fight for the surface. But I’ve been here many times before.  I live balancing on a narrow reef.  Raging seas on one side, deep bay on the other.  It’s just a matter of time until I find myself in one or another.  The reef cuts my feet and grows slick with blood and salt water.  If a breaking wave doesn’t topple me, the long walk to the sky at the end…  I slip you see.  I always slip into the sea.

When I was younger I would scramble, claw at the slick barnacle covered stones.  Magnificent struggles. Epics in desperation.  But the pull is inevitable.  The more I struggled the more I’d hurt myself, leaving pieces of me on the reef.  Or worse, I’d rip blindingly into someone else, someone who cared, someone trying to pull me up by my hair.  Or worse still, I’d pull someone under with me, mindlessly mounting them to keep my head above the surface.  I’ve spent many winters riding the water logged corpses of lovers…

The strangest thing of all… I never remember climbing back onto the reef.  I just realize there I am, it biting my feet.  There’s no great moment of heroism, no surge of self, no selfless soul offering help.  But there I stand and begin again, walking quietly towards the end.

So, no more struggling.  Just drowning.  Instead of frantic flailing, a controlled and dignified descent.  A somber sinking.  There are brief hesitations, hysterical heartbeats as the surface fades from cloudy eyes, while I endure the frigid liquescence…  

I cannot help but try to vomit out the sorrow.

It is an anatomical mandate.

It is embarrassing, but it means I’m alive.

blood of oxenblood of night


blood of oxen
blood of night

(via cordx)


guilt is the fist
i have shoved into
the back of my throat

i knew better than
to want to feel better
or more


Dark red

(Source: dailydoseofstuf, via )


My rage is nauseous. And helplessness sustains it.



I don’t know
if I want to
Subject you
To the danger
That comes with
Falling in love
Just stay right here
And let me stroke your hair
In the morning
And kiss you goodnight

the dogs growl
beneath my skin
so i appease them
with the pens i have
instead of teeth

i feed paper
into my mouth
and tear the
flesh of the word
from the bone
i dig out
the marrow
of each syllable
with ballpoint savagery
while reeking piles
of word guts
surround my naked body

i bathe in the
immediacy and stench
of them
and spit out
jagged fragments
of paper
to tell the rabid truth
of ink and sinew