eringejuice, concentrate

erinlikesblue@gmail.com

Haven’t written a poem in a while but here is one

I like that time heals all wounds.
I like it because I’ve known it
to be true, time and time
and time and time
again. It’s as cliche as it is
Comforting.

It’s as morose as it is
Mundane.

I’ve been here before
not here, exactly,
without you, specifically—
but I’ve been left by other people
whose tastes and smells
and specific way of laughing
I can no longer remember
or even care to.

it feels good to know that each day
I spend without you is a practice
in learning how to be a person
who no longer sleeps beside you

Eventually, I will be a person
who no longer thinks about
what it was like to sleep beside you.

the first time i really had my heart broken, I learned
how sadness can make you strong.
How a human being
can adapt to unexpected
unfortunate
circumstances, can get over anything.
“I can get over anything”:
a badge of determination
and hope:
the knowledge that you are just a story
I tell now
but eventually, I’ll have something else
to talk about.

I can get over anything: knowing this
is a comfort, sure.
but sometimes it’s also
upsetting, disturbing
a warning.
if I can get over anything
why ever get into anything
if you can eventually erase the urgency
and desperation
of every feeling
why bother

Ever feeling it in the first place, at all

Dumb kids

Dumb kids

Don’t drink.
Don’t smoke.
Don’t do drugs.
Don’t sleep around.
Don’t kiss anyone.
Don’t flirt.
Don’t dance.
Don’t make eye contact.
Don’t visit bars.
Don’t visit parks.
Don’t visit monuments
Don’t visit malls.
Don’t go to parties.
Don’t go to crowded places
Don’t go to solitary places.
Don’t use the train.
Don’t walk on the road.
Don’t smile at anyone.
Don’t have a job.
Don’t drive a car.
Don’t have a boyfriend.
Don’t be bisexual.
Don’t be a lesbian.
Don’t wear your hair long.
Don’t wear your hair short.
Don’t wear jewelry.
Don’t wear short skirts.
Don’t wear sleeveless shirts.
Don’t wear jeans.
Don’t wear trousers.
Don’t wear makeup.
Don’t be a woman.

—How Not to Get Raped (Answers to an Actual Survey)
Nikita Gill

IMPORTANT SHARE: 
http://untamedunwanted.tumblr.com/post/95489445128/please-read-how-to-care-for-a-rape-survivor  (via untamedunwanted)

I’ve been walking for a long time,
and it hasn’t made me smarter or faster,
but I bet I can still beat you.

Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow,
but this stubborn monster-girl, gone all wrong
with the river’s sledge, is not
giving in to your one-way-ness.

World, turn all you want to,
faster even. I’ve come to like the way the breeze feels
as it rips me limb from limb.

—Excerpt from “World Versus Girl” by Ada Limón from the collection “sharks in the rivers” (via wordsforstrangers)

Outlook calendar

Outlook calendar

@alexaschlosser took this gram of me doing a freal standup show last night at the store

@alexaschlosser took this gram of me doing a freal standup show last night at the store

@bigbadpug and I plan our future

@bigbadpug and I plan our future

micdotcom:

Potent minimalist art sends a strong message about police and vigilante brutality in America

Journalist and artist Shirin Barghi has created a gripping, thought-provoking series of graphics that not only examines racial prejudice in today’s America, but also captures the sense of humanity that often gets lost in news coverage. Titled “Last Words,” the graphics illustrate the last recorded words by Brown and other young black people — Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant and others — who have been killed by police in recent years.

Let us not forget their voices

(via jessehimself)

Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.

—"Crush," Ada Limón  (via commovente)

(via alonesomes)