Kristina. XXII. USA. "I go everywhere and want to be kissed."  
Anonymous said: hey :) do you have any suggestions for good lit mags for teen writers to submit their work (esp poetry)? it seems to me that most young lit mags are too juvenile & easy, and i want a bit of competition, so it feels good if i manage to get published! (and besides WTR, i know about that one!)

Hello, human! You must really want to know because I’ve seen this question several times already on my dash. Before I answer I just want you to know that you shouldn’t submit your work if your purpose is just to have your words deemed “good enough” by a third party. Really. That’ll take all the enjoyment out of writing and you won’t want to do it. Trust me. Also, not all of my suggestions are specifically or even generally for teen writers but they’re still online journals that I really, really love. ANYWAY, since you’re a curious lil kitten, here are my suggestions:

Dear Portia, you can love anyone
given enough hours, but our hearts
always beat like this: I have / to leave,
I have / to leave, I have / to leave.

Jenny Boychuck, from “Dear Portia” (via bostonpoetryslam)

10 Books That Stayed With You

Rules: In a text post, list ten books that have stayed with you in some way. Don’t take but a few minutes and don’t think too hard — they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.Tag ten friends, including me, so I’ll see your list. 

(Tagged by wistly & memereve)

  1. Daniel Handler, Why We Broke Up
  2. Sierra DeMulder, The Bones Below
  3. Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
  4. Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones
  5. Markus Zusak, The Book Thief 
  6. Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
  7. Warsan Shire, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth
  8. Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex
  9. Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces
  10. Nicole Krauss, The History of Love


Manhattan (1979) - dir. Woody Allen

mostlyfiction said: Kristina.. your book is just.. I am literally speechless and soaking in the feeling of pure amazement. Your words. Those fucking raw, emotional, and vivid words. You have brought so many feelings and situations and nostalgic feelings to the surface. You have taken my logic, and you have made it sensible again. Because of you, my voice is stronger. Because of you, I can feel the warmth of light. I love you, Kristina. Your words will always keep me coming back for more.

Colleen, Colleen. Know that this made me cry. Know that I am posting this publicly because I don’t want to accidentally lose this. Know that you have said what I tried to convey in my book and that I have bled and cried and laughed and put so much of myself into it and that “I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope that I have made them right.” Thank you for this. Thank you for allowing my book to do what I wanted and needed it to do for you. I am giving you the fiercest mental hug that I can. 

It started when I mailed him slices of my fingertips in plain envelopes.
He suction cupped some to his torso like hungry leeches and rubbed

the rest against his skin until they disappeared like chalk. He, loving
me more, sent his entire pinky finger in a shoe box. I inserted it

like a tampon, not even needing to bleed. So I sent him molars to jingle
in his pockets like spare change, both my ears threaded on strings

to hang from his rearview mirror and once, when he was particularly
stressed, I sewed up a breast for him to squeeze. It was Christmas

when I received his white high-top, still on his leg, cracked off just below
the knee. In ink running up his calf was written, remember when we’d go

dancing just to go dancing? When I received a sagging manila envelope
via priority mail, it leaked and ran down the delivery man’s forearm

like sap from a tree. It was still pulsing as I tried to open it with no fingers
to break the seal. No teeth to tear through the paper. Now, I lay scattered

across his apartment, miles from my empty skull, and as his thumbs are in
my silverware drawer, his eyes bobbing in my fishbowl, all I can wonder

is if he notices, I haven’t swept my floor in weeks.

Meghann Plunkett, “Long Distance Larceny”

I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me ‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.

Richard Siken, from “Wishbone  (via mirroir)

happiness is sitting in my best friend’s car for over an hour discussing everything and just having an honest to god discussion about life and choices and people and human rights and feminism and crying because we understand each other so well and i am just so fucking thankful for people like him and so thankful that he gets me because honestly no one gets me and i am so happy and so full and actually drowning a little bit because i really needed that and i strongly recommend getting into a car with an important person whom you love and just drive around and talk and hold their hands and tell them how much they mean to you because they should know


M and I (2013), Jordan Tiberio

headphones in

Grief like a thin layer of foam on my latte. 
I eat your cough and memorize your dark. 
Grow a new body from the pins in my hair,
paint my mouth into a bloody kiss. Here
are my legs beneath my skirt.

You are in the softest parts of me.

So says the myth: women who come
to the temple of Ixchel will be blessed
in marriage and fertility. I arrive
having left a man behind, having nothing
to be blessed or cursed, simply acknowledged.
He erases all trace of me these mornings,
raking fingers through soaped water
to scrub my perfumed sheen off everything,
a fury of long hair swept in a dustpan—
while faraway I kneel, my burnt shins on stone,
breathing salt in the air,
that roiling Caribe behind me.
Seven years we surpassed all odds: his love
for chicken wings and every sport,
sleeping as late as possible while I awoke ready
to gnash through life like a rabid coyote.
Didn’t he know I’d flee somewhere
like Mexico, bleach my hair, forego
modern appliances to lean my bronzed back
on prickled stucco while the guy pushing paletas
spritzes my face with water?
The men here call me Sarita bonita.
Each kisses my palm and offers me fruit.

Sarah Sweeney, “The Goddess”

insert the fish hook

the light on the other side of the bed
how stupid in love with you i was 
calling this body part a mouth, a relationship
it’s not okay that most of my poems are about you
but this is not about you
and this is not always going to be so difficult
but my heart and it wants to be kind
but my fists and they want to be cruel
i don’t know what to do about all of the leaking
what if we just keep coming back as the same people
meeting over and over and over again?

my sexuality: Leo’s face/tone when he announced Kate Winslet for Best Actress