charlie

“...the desire that no daughter of mine should ever be in a position to be able to write BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I SAT DOWN AND WEPT -- exquisite prose though it might contain. ('BY GRAND CENTRAL STATION I TORE OFF HIS BALLS' would be more like it, I should hope.)”
― Angela Carter

“[A] poem is troubled into its making. It’s not a thing that blooms; it’s a thing that wounds.”
― Lucie Brock-Broido

“And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.

But here–a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley–
A treason not to be borne. Let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.

And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.”
― Sylvia Plath

“when it is but it ain't

Some of us love badly.
Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes.
Folds in on itself. Eats its insides.
Turns wine to poison.
Behaves poorly in restaurants.
Drinks. Kisses other people.
Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside.
Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex.
Thinks everyone a rival.

Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse.
Some of us love horrid, love beastly.
Love sick love anti light.
Sometimes the love can’t go home at night,
can’t sleep with itself, cannot contain itself,
catches fire, destroys the stomach,
strips buildings, goes missing.
Punches. Smashes heirlooms.
Tells lies. The best lies. F*s around.
Writes poems, impresses people.
Chases lovers into corners.
Leaves them longing. Sea sick.
Says yes. Means anything but.
Tricks the body.
Kills the body.
Dances wild
and walks away, smiling.”
― Yrsa Daley-Ward