We Need Never Be Hopeless
We Need Never Be Hopeless
+
unexplained-events:

The Sleeping Goddess in The Lost Gardens of Heligan in England.
+
+
"2009

She watches the girls, thin as pixie
sticks, with silver charm bracelets
and pink rubber bands on their
braces already finish the race in
gym class. They whip out their
flip phones, giggling like paper
cuts, taking a picture of the
lopsided girl who dares to
accessorize with an inhaler.
She is still running, running,
running. Sweat pearls her
forehead. Sensible New
Balance gym shoes pound
the track. Her P.E. uniform
bunches between her thighs.
Pink skin. Chafing. She is
determined. She does not
cry, hanging on to the hope-
like she hung on to the gym
class rope- that junior high
is the last time hostility
will be rewarded."
2009, By Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
+
"DICHOTOMY OF GIRL
By Kayla Wheeler

For Poppy Harlow, the CNN correspondent who, after hearing the guilty verdict of the Steubenville rape trial said, “I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was incredibly emotional, incredibly difficult even for an outsider like me, to watch what happened as these two young men with such promising futures, star football players, very good students, literally watched as they believed their lives fell apart.”

Poppy, I understand the truth is hard to swallow. Sometimes it tastes like Rohypnol and cheap liquor. Sometimes you have to pull it out of yourself so hard it can only feel like someone took it from you. Poppy, your voice is so small for someone with so much to say. The first time I was sexually assaulted I was sixteen, working at an insignificant coffee house. He grabbed me like I was a cup he might actually try to drink from, like he was dying of thirst and I was the only satiable thing. How dare I keep him from such a basic need. When I told my female supervisor she said, it was probably just a joke. You were probably in the way. Poppy, girls like me are always getting in the way of something. I wasn’t wearing a push-up bra and thigh highs, it happened anyway. I wasn’t three Redbull vodkas into a Friday night, it happened anyway. Do you get it now? You are not an outsider. You are the worst kind of misogynist for thinking this has nothing to do with you. These rapists do not deserve sympathy, you do, for understanding the anatomy of what you are made of. You are made of rooms. Glass ceilings and doors slamming with, I told you so, little girl. And Poppy, someone won’t break into your house because you asked them not to, it is implied that they won’t come in until you invite them and there is nothing about this that isn’t trespassing. Our bodies are the only things we will always live in. Do you live in your body? Or did you leave it in the dressing room? Do you understand that you have beaten the odds simply for having a microphone in your hand instead of a clothes iron? But Poppy, who will speak up now? Who will crack themselves wide open, crawl out of the grave you’ve dug in progress? Because Poppy, you’ve taught us to wait for our violence like a pre-existing condition, that every woman who cries rape is a wolf with no fangs and this country should blame her. America, why are you a foolish mother who keeps repeating boys will be boys, boys will be boys, boys will be boys, until all of your daughters are Jane Doe, like they asked for it."

DICHOTOMY OF GIRL, by Kayla Wheeler

(This is one of my all-time favorite poems, by one of my all-time favorite publications, Wicked Banshee Press. Check out the whole issue for more mind-boggling writing. Xoxo, Blythe)

+
"09.11.01

My father was on a business trip
in New York City when the news of
September 11th spilt across the country
like knocked wine. My mother took a
shovel to her chest and buried her heart
in her sleeve. There were thirty-two
messages on our answering machine.
When I got off the school bus, it was as if
her hug did not fit. Her shoulders: snapped
hinges. We sat in front of the television
screen, TV dinners gone cold in our laps.
My mother paced on the phone in the
kitchen. “No, we haven’t gotten a hold
of him yet.” I watched her put the milk
in the cupboard and silverware in the
freezer. It was the day we changed our
passwords, the garage code, every lock
to his birthday. I sprayed his cologne
on my wrists and hid his undershirts
under my bed. When he finally
came home safe, I was surprised
he was not wearing a suit jacket
of ashes. I do not ask him about
what he saw. This story is a burst
blood vessel. This story is never
told at family picnics. It has no
punch line. When my father does
speak, this story is the only one
my mother hushes for.
She lets him tell it.
She lets him
pull the teeth."
09.11.01 by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
+
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
lustik:

The Fanciful,  Monstrous Feminine - Jessica Ledwich
Lustik:  twitter | pinterest | etsy
+
"Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out."
Porphyria R’lyeh.   (via opaqueglitter)
+
"

ON THE ROMANTICIZATION OF MENTAL ILLNESS
After Kelsey Weaver

1. The noose is woven with strawberry blonde hair,
sunflowers caught loosely between braids.

2. The gun shoots confetti, stars, and your first
high school party- where you learn the right way
to play truth or dare is to always pick dare.

3. The scale, that perfect symmetrical square,
is painted with lavender nail polish. Its edges
are lined with french vanilla-scented candles.

4. The pills, when cracked open, are stuffed
with sparkles and glitter, floating delicately
in the milk of a fine china cereal bowl.

5. The razor is double-sided; one side
is dull, and the other is a makeup brush.

6. The gas chamber is clouding
with your mothers favorite perfume,
the black liquid she spritzed on her
wrists before family dinners.

7. The vomit is chunks of pastel
and weak, watered down sunlight.

8. The depression is not depression,
but a meditation, a backwards “Namaste.”

9. The smiles are melting wax.
Your teeth: dripping pearls.

10. Perhaps, the trouble came when we
began searching for the circle of life
in what has always been a noose.

"
ON THE ROMANTICIZATION OF MENTAL ILLNESS by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
+
"WHAT I WISH I KNEW THEN

The boy next to me in the computer lab punches
all the buttons on his calculator at once and cups

his face in his hands. He has been working on geometry
all period. I, on the other hand, frolic around the internet

with my two study halls in a row, prefaced by first period
yoga. I believe I did senior year right. This boy is probably

a sophomore, by the looks of his math worksheet. His jeans
are hemmed and I can see his white socks and black loafers.

His glasses have fingerprints all over them. I ask him
how he is doing. He is a deer, I am the headlights.

"Not so good," he says, cautiously. "It’s my mom’s birthday
and I’m not going to have enough time to make her a card.”

I wish I could show him what I see. I wish
he knew now what I did not know then;

the homework is inanimate. You are walking
on a tightrope and cannot see what is beneath,

but let me tell you, it is a foam pit.
You will be fine. Make your mother the card.

This is the last time she will ever turn forty-nine.
Instead, I suggest he makes her a card during his

lunch period. His shoulders sigh. He has packed
too many AP classes into his suitcase of a schedule.

He does not have a lunch period. Oh—Right.
I forgot how common it is here to forgo

basic human needs for a report card
with a-a-a-a stuttering grades."
WHAT I WISH I KNEW THEN by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
+
"

HIGH SCHOOL



This is how to run a stick of Chapstick
down the black boxes on your scantron
so the grading machine skips the wrong
answers. This is how to honor roll. Hell,
this is how to National Honor Society.
This is being voted “Most Likely to Marry
for Money” or “Talks the Most, Says the
Least” for senior superlatives. This is
stepping around the kids having panic
attacks in the hallway. This is being the
kid having a panic attack in the hallway.
This is making the A with purple moons
stamped under both eyes. We had to try.
This is telling the ACT supervisor you have
ADHD to get extra time. Today, the average
high school student has the same anxiety
levels as the average 1950’s psychiatric
patient. We know the Pythagorean theorem
by heart, but short-circuit when asked
“How are you?” We don’t know. We don’t
know. That wasn’t on the study guide.
We usually know the answer, but rarely
know ourselves.

"
HIGH SCHOOL By Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
+
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
a-greek-goddess:

I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am whole. I deserve to love myself infinitely.
+
+
+
+