coaptowicz:

englishistheartofbullshit:

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

From her book, Everything is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010)

coaptowicz:

englishistheartofbullshit:

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

From her book, Everything is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010)

(Source: northernocean)

Once again I have added not eating to the list of ways I deal
with the burden of being alive. I feel too old for this.
I have this strange solidarity with my seventh grade self.
The way she lived on green apples and coffee for six months
and her mother never noticed.

The friends I live with now say nothing when I do not eat.
When I carefully measure out my 600 calories a day
and half of them are wine. It is not their responsibility
to take care of me. It is my own. But lately,
I’m doing a terrible job.

Lately I’ve been looking at my body like it belongs
to someone else. Watching it slowly shrink like the crowd
at a party that that has gone too late. My stomach
has been an enemy my entire life. I miss her now that she’s gone.
She is a conquered enemy. A vanquished foe.
I did not want to win. Not like this.

PANK Magazine :: 9.7 // July 2014 :: As if from a Satellite in Distant Space, on a Winter Night by SUMITA CHAKRABORTY

pankmagazine:

Most of all, it is you I miss, you,
and owls, you, and the snap of cold in late February,
I brake beneath an overpass when a train travels on it,
overhead, noise, within, more in a poem once I read the line:
“When I say ‘you’ in my poems,
I mean you,” this too is true of me, and my poems
Hold…

& anyway, isn’t this what the body
was made for? In each photograph
she is a dandelion at the birth
of a tornado, granting heaven
its every furious wish. To see
her move - the stuttering ballet, machine
gun scripture inked into the muscles
of her legs, is to know the body, at last,
as not a conduit for prayer, but prayer
itself.
I remember
how seeing the shape of your mouth
that first time, I kept staring
until my blood turned to rain.

Some things take root
in the brain and just don’t
let go.
I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.
She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.
Sometimes when people don’t say things, they don’t say things differently.

lolmythesis:

Linguistics, University of California, Santa Cruz

<i>Beyond Deep and Surface: Explorations in the Typology of Anaphora</i>

I sit before flowers

hoping they will train me in the art 
of opening up.


I stand on mountain tops believing 
that avalanches will teach me to let go.


I know 
nothing,


but I am here to learn.