The Dark Knight

Female. Lesbian. Mathematical Engineer. Astronomer. Runner (Boston Qualifier). Cyclist. Cross-Fit Enthusiast. BDSM.

[my-heart-is-a-sore]

Do you know the terror of he who falls asleep? To the very toes he is terrified, because the ground gives way under him, and the dream begins.

- Friedrich Nietzsche (via my-heart-is-a-sore)

[poeticallyemm]

“but my dear,” he said, “you are not a story.”   “you are not a book, given to them as a means of escape from the harsh truths that devour this world.   you are not a beautiful set of words, strung together only to elegantly roll off the tongues of passers-by.   you are not a spectacular tale of good conquers evil, of light against dark.   you are a thunderstorm, beauty and fear in the perfect balance, kind yet frightening, you, my dear, are painfully real.”

e.m.b, the painful truth of the matter (via poeticallyordinary)

[esmesloveandsqualor]

-Caitlyn Siehl

[latenightcornerstore]

I don’t know how to tell you That I Am tired Of talking. Bone-weary and wild-eyed— I am heavy in my own skin. . What they don’t tell you About standing up for what you believe in Is that your feet will bruise And your legs will ache. You will go sleepless And hungry. You will find yourself wading Knee-deep Through judgment and disdain. They will try to push you down in the waters And you will be afraid to drown. . You will not open your mouth. You will not let the water in. You will spit the poison out. . Your body will be crippled With a thousand phantom aches and pains Broken hearts like broken bones. Your throat will be raw from screaming, even (especially) When no one hears you. You will keep standing Even when you want nothing more Than to lay down And sleep. . There are bags under my eyes. There is sorrow festering between my ribs. There is rage in my mouth. I am not your wilting, fair-weather flower. I am the marble statue pulled up from the ground. . I will not be moved.

Foundations, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[thedarkknight55]

You gave up on love six generations back, but when she slips her hands under your skirt you remember what it is to feel holy again. When the world forgot your name, she moaned it into your mouth; she carved it into your skin with the knife you gave her back when you were still young and violent – when the men who worshiped at your temples came with blood and wine and sacrifices. And for all the years in abject silence, you both can remember the high of the hunt and the sounds of the sirens. So you get drunk on whiskey and drink off each other and swallow whole the parts of the city that no one else touches. You never have been afraid to crawl through the gutter. Holding hands on the outskirts, digging through sin: cheap shots, body shots, head shots. She pins you to hotel doors- not a goddess anymore, but she still looks like religion in high heels. She kisses you godless. Whispers, We dress like princesses to go out and kill kings. You are each the other’s own personal monster, and you let yourselves both off the leash. Feral teeth made for killing, for mauling, for kissing: she’s in love and you don’t remember the word, but you know what it is to be inches inside her, to want to give her the world, and give it to her bleeding. And this is your Church of Broken Necks, of Missed Rent, of Bad Habits. So you’re not gods anymore- but you can burn down the city and still be some kind of messiah and you can do it, so long as you’re burning beside her. So long as it means even the echo of a chance to feel just on the wrong side of holy. -Old World Gods by Ashe Vernon

[latenightcornerstore]

Open hands are out of season. These days, everyone I know talks about coming at their hearts with their fists. I try to talk about myself that way: violence and timbre, teeth to pink underbelly, all ache in a skin suit. Bravado is a bad look on me– the fabric doesn’t hang right. I only bark at the things that scare me; I was born to be a soft, bruising thing. Like a fresh peach. No turn of phrase could suit me for the battlefield. Not when the hunger I feel is less fire, more symphony. My heart hums like the thrall of a cello. It sings and sings and softens.

BRAVADO by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[thedarkknight55]

Why hello alcohol. I think we are going to become the bestest of friends.

[latenightcornerstore]

I found my lipstick in the corner of your mouth And chased it halfway down your spine. You were always bad at waltzes And my feet only knew two things: How to keep time, And how to walk away. I didn’t mean to spend so long counting. But the bend in your spine Looked just like the valley From my favorite painting, By an artist whose name I can’t remember. And there, nestled against the curve of your skeleton: That was where I wanted To build a house And make a home. So if my heart dropped out of my mouth, Or my hands forgot themselves around you, It was only because I was imagining the way You would kiss my neck while I poured my coffee Or the way I never wanted a picket fence kind of life Until I met you. If I put distance between My heart and your mouth, It’s only because my ribcage was busy putting down roots Along the dip of your spine. If I seemed nervous, or worried, or cripplingly afraid— I was.

Why We Didn’t Work Out, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[thedarkknight55]

When your new therapist calls you and asks you if you still experience manic depression, insomnia, ptsd, OCD and anorexia, according to your file at least and all you do is joke about it and say is that all it says but know it's only the beginning.

[thedarkknight55]

[thedarkknight55]

Never say the words ‘this is not my life’ This pain that wakes you screaming in the muzzle of the night That woke your lover, chased into another room into another life This fevered fainting This tremoring chest These lungs like a mangle kite This panic like a cave of bats This nurse drawing blood wearing doubled gloves This insurance doesn’t cover that This hurried paycheck of doctor after doctor after doctor This stethoscope that never hears your heart This hospital bed This florescent dark This save your prescription with side effects worse than the disease This please let me have one month where I read more poems than warning labels This not knowing what the test will say This pray pray pray This airplane’s medical emergency landing Shame when you can’t walk Shame when you’re home alone sobbing on another friday night Say ‘This is my life This is my precious life This is how badly I want to live’ Say Sometimes you have to keep pulling yourself up by the whip Take punch after punch to the face forward To the head up And still uncurl the fist of your grief like a warm blanket on the cool earth of your faith Say every waiting room is the kiln where you will finally take shape to fit into the keyhole of your own gritty heart To open mercy To open your siren throat   Say every fever is a love note to remind you that there better things to be than cool Fuck cool Fuck every pair of skinny jeans From the month your muscles atrophied to a size two Say fuck you to anyone who asks you if you eat enough Say how do you not know that is so fucking rude Remember you never have an obligation to fight the hurricane in your chest Especially on a day when another healthy person suggests ‘you would feel so much better if you would just focus your breath into a Buddha beam of light’ Like that blind is going to miraculously dissolve the knife that’s been churning in your kidneys for the last six fucking months Say Sunshine, please go back to your job at the aroma therapy aisle at Whole Foods and leave me alone I know how to help my body God does not expect me to use my inside voice God knows how goddamn hard I am working to become a smooth stone So I can skip on my back across this red red sea So I can trust deep in my screaming bones Everything is a lesson Lesson #1 through infinity You will never have a greater opportunity to learn to love your enemy than when your enemy is your own red blood A truce is a word made of velvet Truce is a word made of velvet Wear it everywhere you go Bandage the window where you screamed at the mountain for forgetting your footsteps Trust that mountain is climbing you Especially on the days you inevitably want to avalanche everyone who loves you When you can’t walk from the bed to the bathroom without clenching at the walls When you can’t imagine you can fall to pieces in another’s sturdy arms and still be seen as whole Remember, the universe only became the universe when it shattered into dust And that shattering is the one thing you can always trust enough to tell you the truth is so quiet you may never have heard it without a stethoscope pressed to your chest

[bubblybonka]

Life is a fight from the minute you take your first breath to the moment you exhale your last. You have to fight the people who say it can never be done. You have to fight the institutions that put up the glass ceilings that must be shattered. You have to fight your body when it tells you it is tired. You have to fight your mind when doubt begins to creep in. You have to fight systems that are put in place to disrupt you and obstacles that are put in place to discourage you. You have to fight because you can’t count on anyone else fighting for you. And you have to fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. To get anything of real value, you have to fight for it.

Ronda Rousey, “My Fight/Your Fight” (via bubblybonka)

[micdotcom]

Watch: Ronda Rousey opens up about body image, fighting as an escape and why she needs other women 

[latenightcornerstore]

Today, I do not write to be delicate. Today, I write to move mountains, with calloused hands on the backs of hurricanes, I am an immovable object and an unstoppable force. There are words swelling, like torrential rain, in my chest, and when they spill from my mouth, I will cover the world in water. . This is not a poem for old souls. This is a poem for blood that runs hot and red— Nationalism to the beating muscle in your chest calling allegiance to your body. Others can write to Love and Infinity. But tonight, tonight I am writing to bleed.

Tonight, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[thedarkknight55]

I just have no desire anymore. I'm tired of getting up when the ground is disintegrating beneath me.

[latenightcornerstore]

I dug through the landfill of your chest and found the meadow where the sun god goes to rest his eyes. I thought, this must be where Mother Earth pressed your heart between her hands, because I could feel her fingerprints seared to the curve of your ribs. I pilfered your dark places— the ones where the moon likes to hide. I found the parts of yourself you thought you were supposed to be ashamed of. I kissed all your secrets. They looked too much like mine. Truth is, I have no idea if we were any good for one another, but I know our demons all got along with each other just fine.

HERE’S TO THE HOLY UNHOLY, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[thedarkknight55]

The Make-A-Wish Michigan, Wish-A-Mile (WAM) 28th Bicycle Tour took place on July 23 – 26, 2015 and is the largest fundraiser for Make-A-Wish Michigan. Riders travel across this great state for 3 days and for 300 miles of the countryside. This year we raised over 2 million dollars to grant wishes of those children with life-threatening conditions!!! Here are some photos from this epic adventure.