Johnny said once, Eating with someone is really intimate
and it’s stuck with me. So I decline dates at restaurants
because he’s right and it’s too soon and, anyway,
maybe I’ll hate how these long-necked boys
who don’t know how to hold a fork eat. I’ve written
a lot of things for him, Johnny, more than he knows about.
I am 22 now so naturally I miss everyone.
I am 22 so I roll my eyes when someone says love.
Dad has the air conditioner all the way up but I’m still
waking up sweating. My brother has taken to degrading
women in that casual way that boys do—flick of the shoulder,
dark-eyed, he is my father in miniature, but I love him,
as sisters do, even if I don’t agree with his mouth.
I wanted this poem to go somewhere important
but I keep looking over my shoulder. I hate mornings.
I keep spilling my guts out to strangers on the internet,
and this is not the first time I waxed my legs for a boy.
We’re all fighting over who we’re going to take home
and I’m still pretending I can play the clarinet.
Everyone keeps complimenting my nail beds.
Remember mood rings? Mine stays black.

Kristina Haynes, “Johnny Said Once”


Hello everyone! Just reminding you that my book,  What We Buried, is available for purchase on Amazon as well as the Words Dance website!


I nod my head, say, Girls are so dirty
but I leave my used panties on the floor for days.
Have to fish out clumps of my hair from the shower drain,
wipe toothpaste from the faucet, clean period blood
from my sheets, leave my hair unwashed for a week,
sleep in my mascara and eyeliner. I pick at my acne
because my hands don’t know how to do anything
except destroy. The same boys stay hanging up
in my closet, snapshots of their mouths decorating
my nightstand the color of bruise. I practice saying
I love you into my palm and clench it tight
so it can’t escape. Forget it. No one asks if you’re okay.
No one wants a real answer. I make myself pretty
for boys I don’t even know how to talk to. I take them home.
Show them how to use the shower, the coffee pot.
Let them undress me in the dark. In the morning
I find wedding rings in their pockets.

Kristina Haynes, “Hypocrite”
Anonymous said: I found you again. I had forgotten about you, just for a while, but I remembered you and I came back. And thank goodness I did because your words, your words, Kristina: they are what everyone should come back for. I want to come back, the real me, the 'me' that I like, the one that believed she was worthy of love. I am going to get her back. Thank you, beautiful, clever, true girl.

This has been the lump in my throat for the past week.

fhauly said: why the shipfitters wife? :)

It’s my favorite poem by my favorite poet, Dorianne Laux. Gently suggest that you read her work. She’s ace.

Anonymous said: i don't even know you and i miss you

C’mere so we can hold each other


Maya Angelou

We write in darkness. We love
in alleys. We breathe into beige
paper bags. Anything to mollify
the confusion. Anything to simplify
the math.

Bill Yarrow, “Bees in the Eaves,” published in Mad Hatters’ Review (via bostonpoetryslam)

thank you if you have stayed with me for this long. i am looking at this space and i am not sure about the furniture or the paint. the floors need to be scrubbed. the plants should probably be tossed. i am slowly coming back but it’s difficult readjusting when outside life has been so good to me.

my ask box is unapologetically open if you need me. xo


Friendzone ideology isn’t attacked because “nice guys” are comical or because fedoras make a funny meme, it’s because this logic is literally dangerous. This logic of “gentleman = deserving sex” breeds hatred of women, and brutal violence against women, and if a 22 year old self-proclaimed “supreme gentleman” murdering 6 in a campus shooting spree because of sexual rejection doesn’t drive that home, I don’t know what else would.

I am so sad and I am so angry and I am so sorry.

i kiss you like how a forgotten painting in a pretty room feels
i’m saying look at me
but people close their eyes when they’re kissing
& sometimes when they’re not

Kayla Day, “love poem #4554”

Nema-ye Nazdik (Close-up), Abbas Kiarostami (1990)