hello, medusa

good woman / baby girl a collection of soul-sounds by r. lynn.

[mothologie]

there doesn't exist a more authentic version of myself than when i'm writing. in a way, it sort of feels like poetry is the only time where i truly find my flow without worrying about it.

28 fucking years on this planet & all i had to do was just embody my poetry. the snake, eating itself

agonizing again and again over whether she'll belong when she didn't even belong to herself.

[mothologie]

to put my lips together & whisper nothing

but all of the hurts & the angers & then the rages

& the way my fists still seize up

around men

& as i needle my fingertips

i turn older

but my brain continues to listen to what has happened what will happen & who i might forever be from when i was sixteen

[mothologie]

little fears pt. 1

what becomes & what is left of me

once i'm untangled from around my Hurt?

what wound will remain in me except courage & love?

[mothologie]

waitforitwaitforitwaitforit

i pulled the wool from my eyes & it stung

& it burned same as everything always does

my vision was blind from how bright & how foreign a life on my own my very very own now is.

[mothologie]

again & again

to speak my Mother’s native tongue we must

break the words & the heart they come from

(& in short we do not speak at all)

[mothologie]

let me not be wounded by his words or by his presence.

let me not doubt my actions, let me not fear my mistakes.

let me not be wounded from his teeth

(you charming & ugly boy; how many girls have you used these lines on?)

let me find the wisdom i need to carry me safely home

(wherever that may lie)

[mothologie]

you know i want to be a man like my father was:

to leave a family behind with utmost confidence & coke

& find absolution from his God in a new one

all is forgiven, & so it is written.

[mothologie]

my boyfriend

shines a diamond by spitting on it first

can’t ever get his baggage checked at whatever airport he’s trying to fly his heart out of

seems like playing pretend in his father’s suits as a kid wasn’t enough when he got older; has to pretend in his father’s skin now

lets a chasm break through our mattress & my heart

has the confidence of cupid’s arrow

can’t fathom those of us with holes in our heart that can’t be bottled

a hero in a costume with too many tears to be mended too small for his darkness that he

tries to say isn’t there.

the greatest illusionist of em all 

o, god i love him.

[mothologie]

sometimes. . .

you ask the frightened child in you how she would like to be loved & if she can or could muster or know the words for it,

past the pinhole of loneliness, maybe thru her love of butterflies,

she’ll plead for you to see that you’re enough.

[mothologie]

it is too quiet here. a wind could scream yet six-dozen stonestreet bricks tap undefeated under the soles of high-priced trainers. a dog defends perhaps a grill or some pastime left "unwrecked" by street speak, by soul-urban sounds -- a wood scrape, a beetle buzz -- a sun orange, not blood; a birdsong it is too quiet here.

“a waltz”, r. lynn

[mothologie]

love-starved little dove: 

how many times will you lick the palm of the hand that feeds you only when he deems you should have a taste?

to know that loving you is rationed out by the time it takes to hit the center of his life-line & when your thirst is clawing its way off the dryness of your tongue

to know that you get an evaporated taste of salt & something that upsets you but you can’t put your finger on exactly what it is?  (isn’t that the worst feeling of all?)

[mothologie]

the hunger for closure: an altar for an unknown god the cause of it all yellowed the pages of a Bible i didn’t know i was reading

[mothologie]

the snake drools a thick pool of honey. he is hungry. you know this, you offer yourself still. his tail wraps around your waist and hoists you through red fruit trees, through a canopy, places you  on the ruins of some god’s altar. he tells you you belong there. there’s honey in your mouth, in your eyes, in your good common sense. you belong here. 

you’ve watched the garden rot around you. he leaves you there. the thought of honey makes you sick. the snake can charm. his eyes are hungry. 

[mothologie]

i am endless. i am this. i am a conversation gold dust clipped dragonfly wing chewed bubblegum under an over-vandalized bus seat that dull pounding ache between my temples that knee-jerk nausea that  spits forward that says i’m getting too comfortable & too vulnerable the late night tornado that takes up my thoughts the ache in my calves, sore muscles that say you need to run the grasshopper shredded bright greens and yellows by a mower blade the southern comfort i call the sound shushing through the trees red hornet in the grass the yellow flowers that waited for the mowing to stop to grow 

the drop outside of the lemonade pitcher sliding down despite the heat 

[mothologie]

YOUR LAST BREATH HAS TO BE AN EVENT YOU WISH YOU COULD HAVE DONE DIFFERENTLY. WHAT IS IT?

(anxiety, is that you?) 

  struggling with my anger & my low self-esteem for this long. just now putting the bend in my knees to sit & discover & learn myself at 26. i hold myself against a standard i will never achieve and my honesty is displaced for modesty. afraid of conflict. afraid of criticism. the cracks in my spine are probably from the times i’ve bent backwards to let others across. it’s going to be a long, if not lifelong process. i regret not starting it earlier, but i’m so thankful i’m getting to start it now. 

[mothologie]

a resistance to change means i write on a dying blue medium instead of moving & building my brand somewhere else.

tumblr has a siren song. 

[mothologie]

“I WANT YOU”

american dreams: leaves the brothers on the corner, secondhand clothes with secondhand holes secondhand dreams from their founding fathers

keeps my fists clenched keeps my anxiety on some other shit; wondering if i'm racing against time or if i'm racing against myself

& it keeps the anger closed in my throat, tucked away (& maybe that's why my shoulders ache & maybe that's why my face is numb)

american dreams: all that glitters isn't gold, it's living paycheck to paycheck

out of pocket costs for the lump in my throat, for the redness in the tips of my fingers for the numbness that's creeping, creeping down

a demon under the clear water keeping the sirens at bay (what else can you get into when you're sick & tired of being sick & tired)

american dreams leave the roads you knew broken, black crickets jumping wind howling gut-wrenching, soul-shaking sobs

are they proud of us now?