Anonymous said: Have you ever written ten poems in one day and not posted them to tumblr? I sometimes feel like writers if writing is their passion should produce a lot of material if it is something they want to make their life career and make a profit from. Do you think your passion for writing is shown through how much you dabble in the subject? Is it a struggle for a person who really loves writing and is their passion to produce more than one poem a day? Not being mean but overly curious.

No, actually, you pose a really great question and it’s something I think about myself a lot actually! Honestly, yes, it’s hard for me to write so much and not share what I’m working on on Tumblr. But I’m trying hard to post less of my work because, as you’ve said, I’m sort of getting paid to write now (a little bit) and I definitely keep that in mind when I’m writing and especially when I’m debating on whether or not to post a new poem or even a little baby excerpt of something. But I started this blog off having absolutely no idea what I was doing (for any of you that have been following me since I first started, you know I wasn’t even a writing blog!) and not getting paid for anything, just kind of having fun and not writing at all, I don’t think it’s entirely fair of me to withhold new work and not post anything and then just demand that y’all purchase my book or whatever. That just doesn’t sit right with me. I wouldn’t be where I am without any of you, cheesily enough, so I’m not ever going to stop posting new things outright, there just might be less new work at times because I’m working on other projects at the moment, like these Chloe poems and another manuscript and things that I’ve been asked to do for several literary magazines. My ten poems in three days post is referencing my Chloe poems project which, if you can’t tell, I AM EXTREMELY EXCITED ABOUT and I honestly just want to finish them so I can figure out what to do with them. I think it’s clear that I’m passionate about my writing but I don’t think that at all correlates with how much work you’re producing at any given time. Sometimes you just don’t want to write. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. More like you care so much you don’t want to fuck it up.


Anonymous said: please explain your 'chloe poems' project?

um honestly i really don’t have too too much to say about it other than my goal is to ultimately write 25 poems for this project and, from the time i decided to do it last night to just right now, i’ve currently written four poems and am working on two partly-done pieces. i’m actually really excited because i’ve always wanted to try out serial poems and i’m really really REALLY happy with how they’re coming out so far so we’ll see. eventually i’d like to expand the project (ie release them as a chapbook or something online for a teeny tiny fee but let me not get ahead of myself. i have to write them all first!) xoxox

Chloe was born with her eyes open
which means she can see through your bullshit.
Chloe, you don’t have to hunch your shoulders
in like that. She leaves her mouth all over town
and always tips too much. Fishing pennies
out of her sheer stockings, getting high
off the fumes from the city bus. Chloe,
don’t think that you’re doing anyone any favors.
This will end in tragedy but your boyfriend
will still drive you home and kiss your forehead
while all of those numbers from strangers
weigh heavy where you stuffed them into
your push-up bra. Chloe, you scare me when
you say you are nothing except your body.
Sometimes she just wants to throw herself down
the stairs or brew all the coffee in her cabinets.
Chloe wakes up feeling like she’s been kissed
by the bartender and as proof, she picks
a cherry stem from her back molars. Rinses
her mouth with grenadine.

Kristina Haynes, “Chloe Was Born”

Sometimes I Wish I Never Took a Women’s Studies Class


Sometimes I wish I never took a women’s studies class. How, once I saw the war against us, I could not unsee it. How aware I became of the billboards and their slow twist of my arm. The lipsticks I used to collect, and love, suddenly many-hued bullets. Walking out from the midnight of a movie theatre into the shock of day, my friends laughter popping like corn, saying how great the movie was, and me, the blanket wet with phrases like, ‘the male gaze! ‘, ‘heteronormative!’ ‘complete and utter objectification of women!’

I miss the days when I could enjoy a fucking movie, or the silk of a shaven leg. I miss not having an existential crisis in the hairstylist’s chair saying, ‘no, i’m going to keep it long this summer.’ Miss the days when I wanted the men to look — when I thought ‘not like other girls’ was a compliment. I miss the days way back, further back, when I could pin a picture of a princess on my wall and feel proud—I even wished it when I was in that courtroom—when I could have still been a girl who let things go, who said the threats were not so bad, said ‘boys will be boys’ and let him tell me how pretty I’d look murdered.

But I was glad for those classes that day, in his room, when I said, ‘No’, and he said, ‘Must’, and I laced up my boots and got on a train, any train, not sure where home was but knowing damn well where it wasn’t.

-Megan Falley has been writing a poem a day, every day for the year of 2014. “Sometimes I Wish I Never Took…” was her 193rd poem of the year.

Anonymous said: Hi where can I buy your book? I absolutely love your poems. They make me feel like you understand me, and can put my feelings and emotions into words. You're amazing.

Thank you so much! You can currently purchase my book in both digital and print versions on the Where Are You Press etsy webpage. xoxo 

baby’s all dressed up with nowhere to go

Anonymous said: reading your poems feels like having a blanket curling up around me reassuring me that all i've ever felt was valid <3

I think the most comforting thing about writers and writing in general is that we’re here to remind you that you’re not alone in what you feel or think or say or do. Thank you.

Peel yourself up off the bathroom floor
and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.
It’s not like it’s Valentine’s Day and you have
no one to love. It’s been months and you’re still
waiting for someone to kiss you but this is not
the worst that you’ve been through. You always
said you were going to do better so start doing
what you want. Wear more red. Cut your hair
like a boy’s or grow it out so long you need
a procession to follow you around and carry it
behind you like a wedding veil. In this body
you sit and sit and wonder who’s going to ring
the doorbell next. You can’t make anyone love you.
In the kitchen your mother mixes salt and sugar
and flour together and you could mess this up
but she’ll still kiss you on the forehead and say things
like proud and responsible and trustworthy
to the neighbors. Let her. Some days the sadness
will be so heavy you won’t be able to feel your hands.
So much happens inside of you that it can be hard
to separate cell division from your paper tissue heart
and you may never remember this feeling again,
but you are the home that you’ve built for yourself.
I know you’re afraid of losing those you love
but don’t you know we have all night.

Kristina Haynes, “How to Survive”


Touch, Jessica Williams

got my lazy ass in gear and wrote two full poems today but let me tell you something about struggle

I’m shadow puppeteering
our next kissing contest,
funded by the grant
of your lower lip.

My hands collect your back
like taxes. I want more fingers,
toes, freckles as abacuses
to count your return.

Your mouth auto corrects
my body language. Your voice
hangs like streamers. I walk
like cursive.

Jesse Bradley, “You Can’t Spell Monogamy Without ‘Mono’” (via haleighhappiness)


We destroy what we love. 

Vodka so strong I have to hold my nose
to swallow to get it down and even then it is like
a lightning storm in my stomach. There is music
playing loudly and they are chanting
my name as I take three shots, no pause.
It’s rushing down my throat hot and quick,
and after, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
the skin shining like I’ve kissed myself.
The only way to drink it is to convince yourself
that you need it. It’s late but this is what our bodies
are made for, vessels for the music that vibrates
its way through our veins like escape. Surprise
we are throwing up our dinner in the yard
surprise he is kissing you like he’s starving
surprise I didn’t think I would mind. Our
legs unforgivable things in our dresses, mouths
devastating in the glaring summer night. Our hips,
gleaming, wild things. We feel safest in the backseat
of the car because we don’t know where it’s going.

Kristina Haynes, “Backwash”