femme.

everyone i meet has your name
& everywhere i go i see it written
no one has your face, though, and that’s the real shame

i think i will die alone because
everyone is ugly

i need something to look forward to
or i die
(every time)

i just want to collect baubles
& pretty things
& take walks around lakes & lay on docks in the summertime
and not be alone while i do this.

a pretty girl sent me photos of the minutiae of her day & it really charmed me
i wanted to eat frozen yogurt with her & pick out the cute-colored spoons
i wanted to help her wipe off her skirt when she spilled her yogurt on it
i wanted to touch her hair, which was like mine, but yellow
i wanted to walk around the lower east side buying paper together
& watch her make her art
& maybe fall in love a little

i wanted to forget all about you
through my new love for her

i find white men a little grotesque
especially the wide-jawed ones, all 5’oclock shadows, all future paunch
& circumstance
i like a man who has seen some shit 
that isn’t the same shit i’ve seen
but i like a feminine man
& i’m not sure what that says about me
i’ve always been this way
i want those soft clammy hands & thin fingers
i want smooth cheeks & long narrow faces
& small statures especially, no hulking Neanderthal frames

i like a human being that looks like it can kill you with its brain
a human being with no need for brawn
or big puffing chests
or talk of the alpha male

i’m more lenient with the women
just give me the soft skin & a few years’ wisdom
the red lips & black lashes & cat-eye spikes for daze

i want to replace you
with a dress & some heels

good things.


you said, “are you ever going to write good things about me?”
after examining the bruises you left on my body

& you have to admit, the timing is funny

we’re naked and wet from the shower
& in the mirror i look at 4 finger-sized contusions on the side of my breast
& clench my hand into a fist to feel the swollen joints where you pulled back bone

“you didn’t have to pay for a thing yesterday,” you said,
“didn’t we have a good night?”

in my head i see your hands & their pushing
&  how swiftly your arm arced through the air to my throat
& the mark left on the bridge of my nose when you knocked the glasses off my face
& the ripped clothes in the garbage
& the red marks across my stomach where you grabbed & twisted flesh
& the broken mirror
& the coffee-soaked books in my room (casualties of war)
(should i go on?)

but yes, it’s true, you bought me dinner
& that was pretty nice

leighstein:

Elizabeth Ellen, “Ground Rules”

leighstein:

Elizabeth Ellen, “Ground Rules”

(via altlitgossip)

what do you want from me

what do you want from me

painted my nails dried blood brown
the color of something past saving

oxytocin waste of time

on the sonogram, our mistake looked like an eclipse
it felt like staring at the sun
i looked until i was blind
(turned out there was nothing to see)

"what is this posture i have to stare at,"
(that’s what he said when i was sitting up straight)
changed the name of the game ‘cause he lost and he knew he was wrong but he knew it too late

sloane eliot writes

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