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– Mary Ruefle, from “On Imagination”

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“Hung on my bedroom wall is the quote attributed to Joan of Arc: “I am not afraid. I was born to do this.” However my life unfolds, goes my thinking, is how I am meant to live it; however my life unspools itself, I was created to bear it.”

— Esmé Weijun Wang, The Collected Schizophrenias  

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– Jenny George, “Death of a Child”

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– Lisel Mueller, “Sometimes, When the Light”

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– Jenny George, “Mnemonic”

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Once as a child I went to a birthday party at the house of the child across the street. Halfway through the party I left quietly, returned to my own house and stood in the front window watching the other house, sucking on the thought of how they would miss me.

— Anne Carson, from “1 x 30”

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– Ada Limón, “What I Didn’t Know Before”

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From Rudy Francisco’s book, HELIUM.

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the woman you’re becoming will cost you people, relationships, spaces, and material things. choose her over everything.

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a man plows his truck through the crowd celebrating on the Nice boardwalk where my once-love once insisted we could make it all the way through a triple-layer chocolate mousse until we were both so full we could not even bear to lick our spoons I text a friend where are you which is code for please tell me these new deaths are not yours this time if I scroll up I will see the same text she sent me in January when I was in lockdown in Jakarta as the man in the starbucks across town pulled the pin from his grenade not yours this time is a song that plays so often I cannot help but know the words are you ok is the hook are you ok is code for we are not ok but please remind me you are breathing back home the Black men and women I love look into mirrors and wonder if they are loose teeth in the mouth of an impatient god are you ok I text impotent please remind me you are breathing I am scared is not a good enough reason to not get out of bed The world is falling apart is not a good enough one either I ask my mother if growing older means one wound piled upon another until we are just a collection of hurt and she insists no— sometimes somebody gets married or has a baby someone teach me a new song please bring me a spoon and a mouth to lean across the table for this time this time I am a jaw of loose teeth I am a collection of string I am a snow-globe of worry I am a rolodex of fear they are putting bodybags over children on the sidewalk where I once pushed a bowl away laughing I cannot possibly have anymore I am already full

Sarah Kay, The Places We Are Not

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Kill Your Boyfriends

First, wear the clothes they carelessly left

on that night you can’t remember,

so it’s themselves they see walking away.

Look at them, always,

with an expensive abandon

and a little below the lips.

Whatever you play, play it on repeat.

And if they say, “why this?”

tell them “Brando or Morrison died

listening to this song"—

say it without caring what they’ll think.

Kill your boyfriends, boys.

At the movies or the bar booth,

on your first date, in your bedroom.

Kill your boyfriends—kill your boyfriends, ladies.

While they kiss you, just before they say

"I’m close,” just before they can forget to miss you.

When they mouth sweet things,

when they ask once more to see you.

Why not kill what’s yours?

Why not make it lethal?

You are so in love with love.

You are carving out another heart,

you are filling it with nothing see-through.

You must kill your boyfriends.

You must kill what wants,

like death, to keep you.

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American Faith | Alex Dimitrov

You wonder if this city will kill you. The way the sad boy doing cocaine dangles his legs over the ledge of another roof and your favorite summer song ends or is it beginning—it feels too brief to matter. Someone’s life is a red or blue light in the distance. None of this will strip you down the way you’d like. You know you came here for the wrong reasons, so tell me, if New York was a word would it be money or ambition? If you’re lucky, love will let you forget about one of the two. You think about this while you watch someone beautiful put a pill in your mouth and a temporary feeling in your body. And love—love again— like a night siren, passes. Why go into detail? America is about finding something to worship.

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be the kind of witch they are always burning, but do not burn –

— Cassandra de Alba, from “How to Break Up the Band,” published in Tinderbox

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“The Places We Are Not” by Sarah Kay

a man plows his truckthrough the crowdcelebrating on the Nice boardwalkwhere my once-love once insistedwe could make it all the way througha triple-layer chocolate mousseuntil we were both so fullwe could not even bear to lick our spoonsI text a friendwhere are youwhich is code forplease tell me these new deathsare not yours this timeif I scroll up I will see the same text she sent me in Januarywhen I was in lockdown in Jakartaas the man in the starbucks across townpulled the pin from his grenadenot yoursthis timeis a song that plays so oftenI cannot help but know the wordsare you ok is the hookare you ok is code forwe are not okbut please remind me you are breathingback homethe Black men and women I lovelook into mirrors and wonderif they are loose teethin the mouth of an impatient godare you okI textimpotentplease remind me you are breathingI am scaredis not a good enough reason to not get out of bedThe world is falling apartis not a good enough one eitherI ask my mother if growing older meansone wound piled upon anotheruntil we are just a collection of hurtand she insists no—sometimes somebody gets marriedor has a baby

someone teach me a new song pleasebring me a spoonand a mouth to lean across the table forthis timethis timeI am a jaw of loose teethI am a collection of stringI am a snow-globe of worryI am a rolodex of fearthey are putting bodybags over children on the sidewalkwhere I once pushed a bowl awaylaughingI cannot possibly have anymoreI am already full

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I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out    in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom    of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

Jack London

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We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

Anaïs Nin

(via kushandwizdom)