Anonymous said: sometimes your poetry hits me so hard that i have to stop reading and stop doing and just think and feel and i can't say that anyone else's words do this to me

This is always what I hope to do with my writing. Thank you. Thank you.

Chloe indulges in strawberry soft-serve
and licks her fingers after and this feels better
than the time she let a boy put his face between
her thighs, this feels better than when she took
three Tylenol for a headache, this feels better
than when she finally accepted her imminent death.
Chloe doesn’t remove her jeans before bed
and doesn’t believe in prayer. Chloe wakes up
with her mascara smeared and four new texts.
Don’t you think it’s time to stop romanticizing
un-sharpened pencils, Chloe? Don’t think
you’re fooling anyone with the broken eggshells
stuffed into the kitchen sink. Chloe will hold
the hand of someone who is very important to her
before the end of the week but for the life of her
she can’t stop crying into her coffee over boys who
don’t care. Sometimes she almost forgets her name
but then she finds the CD with it scribbled on like an
afterthought. Chloe, I know how sad you are.
I hear it every time the needle skips.

Kristina Haynes, “Chloe Indulges”

Even if it’s in the way you hand them a fork or tuck in their tag, find a way to tell the people in your life that you love them and that they matter and that they are important and wonderful and mean moons to you. There is so much love in your lives, I promise. There is so much warm bread.

allhailthehutch:

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

Robin Williams

Rest in peace.

Tumblr kindly reminding me that this blog turned four years old today. Time has gone by so fast it’s almost scary. Thank you to all of you for being here and for your support and patience over the past four years. I wouldn’t still be here if not for y’all. Love each and every single one of you so, so much.

Each time the same -
I am holy, holy, holy, laid
out as a banquet.
His hands are plate,
cup, and knife. Always
a long table, a single
high-backed chair.
This is my body.
He eats me up and I believe
in transubstantiation,
that I will awake someday
in his veins, pound my fists
against the walls of him.

Margaret Bashaar, “Claire and the Demon Hunter Give It Up For Jesus,” published in Vector Press (via bostonpoetryslam)

ginger-confection:

Currently reading
fleurishes

Thank you! You can purchase my book through Where Are You Press in both digital and print formats.

I love them in museums, on buses, sitting compact
in trains and on airplanes, running their fingers
through their hair, drunk at parties, stumbling home,
long-limbed and full of awkward grace, boys, yes,
lay on top of me or lay beside me, breathe light into
my ear. I love them angry and confrontational or soft
and philosophical. I want to curl up inside of them,
read their palms, make them pasta and bread
from scratch. I love them kissing me in the backseat
of a taxi cab or alone on the street corner, lost,
trying to find their way home. I love their throats,
their knobby elbows, their spines beneath a soft
cotton shirt. I love them at home, poised readily
over my Keurig, asking which flavor, if I want sugar.
I love their hands in my hair, undoing the braid,
fingernails to my scalp, yes, more, please don’t stop.
I love them in doorways, at the grocery store among
the cereals and unpronounceable cheeses; I love them
at night, pale shadows under lampposts, walking
away from me and into the men they’re going to be.

Kristina Haynes, “Boys” (via fleurishes)
A Couple with their Heads Full of Clouds (1936) Painting by Salvador Dali

Never, ever underestimate the therapeutic power of spending a few days with close friends. Don’t take the people you love in your life for granted. They truly want to see you better.

5 Questions for Kristina Haynes | Splice Lit

Guys! Girls! Dolls! Butts! 

I’ve just been interviewed by a super cool, super trendy lit magazine called Splicelit and as well as answering some questions about my writing process and my feelings towards Tumblr, they’ve also allowed me to send in two brand new poems. I sound a lot more neurotic than I really am, I think, but I’m so tickled pink by being interviewed that it’s kind of obscene. SO CHECK IT OUT.

if he isn’t calling you then it’s okay to feel
this destroyed over a boy but remember
he did you a favor i know you think this is
the end but it is also the beginning it is also
cleaning up after yourself you can’t keep
crawling inside other people sooner or later
the heap of clothes at the foot of your bed
is going to stand up on its own and talk back
you can’t just wash your hair in the sink
forever when there are people with real
problems who still remember to recycle
and when did you become so soft? trying
so hard to look sexy in photos that you come
off as confused eating nothing but waffles
is not a diet even if there are blueberries
don’t ask just tell about the kinds of shocking
things you find under your nail beds your
mother warned you about pain that would be
there one day and then gone the next she
warned you about it all

Kristina Haynes, “If He Isn’t Calling You”
Anonymous said: when I really want to see myself I go to your page and read your poems

It’s this, really, being able to make a mirror out of my poems. Thank you.

Today darling I am rising
from the lavender bathtub
of self-loathing. I don’t take drugs
to shut up I take off
my pants when I get home
and I stay there, red cup full
of cigarettes from heaven, ghosts
of all my friends between my toes.
I imagine them pouring vodka all over
each other wearing glitter.
The vision is closing in like a tight dress.

Morgan Parker, from “Other People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up At Night,” published in The Offending Adam (via bostonpoetryslam)
RF