I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”
A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”
The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.
I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.
I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.” — I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis (via itscherryamber)
i just ordered dominos and they gave me this
so i was like what the fuck and complained (literally how do u even eat this? tell me.) and they gave me another pizza and i was so excited to see how like perfectly constructed this next pizza was gonna be because wouldn’t you assume they would care more in order to Satisfy the Customer. well
i am suing dominos and i hate america
Just swagged on everyone.
ok, I see you Charlie, even though you got on plaid bermuda shorts
This girl was crying and begging the policeman not to hit her or any of her friends. Then the policeman started crying as well and he said to her: “You just hold on girl.”
The photo comes from protests happening in Bulgaria right now. Students are protesting poverty and corruption in Bulgaria’s Socialist-backed government, chaining themselves to the doors of Sofia University and clashing with police outside of parliament.
After the photo was taken it quickly went viral
this picture is so powerful
First ever #blackmilkclothing purchase. It goes aight. #bmtartanredskaterskirt
me as a parent
Relevant and necessary
I present you mr. Jason Aalon Butler frontman of Letlive.
He is literally punk in human form
jason you’re perf
Second time reblogging.
THIS IS KILLING MY HEART
right in the feels
i’ve seen this before and its really amazing