Scratch & Scream

Imperfect and clumsy as it may look, it is resembling me now, thoroughly.

[scratchandscream]

[lifeinpoetry]

I scratch my skin. Blood sprouts and blooms slowly. I put my tongue to it. It’s sweet like black raspberries. I want to sleep, to be carried.

— Elizabeth Schmuhl, from “#87,” Premonitions

[lifeinpoetry]

When I am missing, trust it’s because I can’t imagine the green sprawling beyond walls or where I say keep

touching me there.

— Anna Meister, from As If

[kafk-a]

Adrienne Rich, from “Splittings,” 1974

[scratchandscream]

[minorne-deactivated20160131]

[scratchandscream]

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[scratchandscream]

[scratchandscream]

I thought it then and I think it now: A weak woman will never make you happy.

[scratchandscream]

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[scratchandscream]