#raw honesty

[mydarkawaits]

loneliness is my only friend and misery is my company

[4herforever]

nevertheless

I screamed in the darkness for someone to come back.

But the forest is empty.

It was always just me.

[mt-ma]

Tie it Up

​Up,

up,

tie it up.

It is safe up.

You won't be noticed up.

It won't matter to you up.

​The Guilt

​The guilt of making yourself pretty,

the guilt of trying to look nice.

Trying to style your hair,

to make it nice,

to make it look nice.

​How could I?

How could I let myself do this?

How could I let myself look nice?

How could I spend my time making myself look nice?

Wasting minutes on it,

while the rest falls apart.

How do I make it matter to me?

​The Fear

​The fear of making yourself feel pretty.

The fear of looking nice.

​The fear of what it might drag to light,

of what might be brought up.

​The fear of being perceived,

of getting noticed,

of inviting danger upon yourself.

​The fear of walking across the street,

the fear of going to the store,

the fear of taking a walk.

The fear of the talk-throws—

the conversations you have to avoid,

learning how to avoid them.

The people,

the comments to ignore.

​

​The Fear. The Guilt.

To avoid the Fear, the Guilt:

up,

up.

It is better to tie it up.

It is safe up.

You won't be noticed up.

Up, up,

up.

[the-most-humble-blog]

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Look, I’m not looking at you. Not because I’m shy. I’m avoiding eye contact like it’s a goddamn landmine. Why? Because the weekend vanished faster than my last shred of patience. Blink, and it’s gone. And no, I didn’t enjoy it. I was stuck running errands for family like their personal Uber-slave.

So don’t get me started on that unholy greeting. “Happy—Monday!” No. It’s not happy. It’s not Monday. It’s a cosmic prank designed by Satan’s HR department.

And if you think I’m gonna smile and chirp like some Disney reject? Hell no. I don’t even fucking talk to you like that. So don’t make me start.

Monday? More like “Motherf*cker’s Day.” And I’m just here, pretending I didn’t just survive the hellscape of errands and family bullshit.

So save your “Happy Monday.” I’m busy rehearsing my “Get the f*ck out of my way” face.

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[elisaenglish]

“In the night, to be feral is to be a possibility. / Even when outlined in lace.”

-Willie Kinard III, Daniel 7 / To Be Feral-

All my holy heart, I want inside you. Come, eat me alive if you must...

[fiestysassybrat]

[elisaenglish]

“Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its colour, flavour, rhythms, intensities.

You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.

If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never-repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odours, but if we expand on this you cry, Cut the poetry.

No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art... We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, colour, odour, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shrivelled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”

-Anaïs Nin, Delta of Venus-

It doesn’t take a literary mind per se nor do you need to know the backstory upon which Nin christened herself “the madam of this... snobbish house of prostitution.” It takes, instead, an appreciation of this woman and this craft—and yes, I’m being wholly self-referential—and core sight and yearning that is unafraid to grasp that splintered, I am pleasured far beyond logistics of a rudimentary orgasm.

[elisaenglish]

“let us laugh this night away and i will fuck you like you were a prayer that could save me by having my mouth around you

and i will hold you afterwards like you were the pulpit and i was the sky and this love that danced between that hardness was the telephone line of holiness that those two things spoke through

take me into your heart like i was a saint and you were a face of forgiveness blooming in a valley destined to sink further

be a river with me

be the storm

the bend in the path

the front porch

the heat in the south

be a boot full of banjo strings

a fist full of written songs

a mouthful of chocolate dust

when they come to take us stab them between the eyes do not take your hand from around mine make a fist with the other and punch spines like guilt

spit sweat kiss them like a grandmother howl open mouthed terror love filled

and when they come to cut our hair and ask to hear penance come from inside of us say with me loud and trembling but loud and clear:

i have already emptied myself. i kissed regret goodbye, took the hands of another backwards angel and rode backwards into the rain

when the hangman of morrow comes to hang the sun in its daily execution, say this with me:

sarah

we are apples, our love is an arrow

i'm unbuttoning my shirt, painting a circle over my heart

please just shoot straight”

-Anis Mojgani, Milos-

Rounding out the month with a raw call, unwavered in the dark. And when they ask you what it feels like having senses peeled to the core, tell them – once and always – that I taste a lot like yours...