Azra Tabassum's Blog, page 163

creuxing:growing pains

creuxing:

growing pains 

"Remember this when you are queen,” he whispered hoarsely. “I moved the earth and the water for you."

““Remember this when you are queen,” he whispered hoarsely. “I moved the earth and the water for you.””

- Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless 

It's so funny and immature of people who treat you like a magic 8 ball

It’s funny because if I get shaken up too much I tend to throw up…

"Call my tongue a crownof thorns, a patch of nettles sunk deep in an arm.I’ve found every sparrow..."

“Call my tongue a crown

of thorns, a patch of nettles sunk deep in an arm.

I’ve found every sparrow God has forgotten

to watch over. I’ve wreathed them in briars

and hung them from the back fence. They say

they’re tired of singing. They sang only to be noticed.

I am noticing. They are noticed.”

- Roger Reeves, “Self-Portrait as Ernestine ‘Tiny’ Davis,” published in Blackbird (via bostonpoetryslam)

Where is the one who cradles my head and scratches my back? Where did he go?

Where did he come from, where did he go?
Where did he come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?

I can't tell if you really love or really hate a piece of writing when you say it makes you angry

It means I love it. If something genuinely makes me angry, I don’t want anything to do with it. Poems like that make me angry because I feel so inadequate. The language, oh the language. “I scrub his back with rind.” “I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers.” Who writes like that? Not me. Damn it.

"Mother, he is a gentleman.He is a builder with bricks of moonlight.He knows the secret places of..."

“Mother, he is a gentleman.

He is a builder with bricks of moonlight.

He knows the secret places of the earth.

He washes the sleep from the eyes of the souls.

He lets them look on beauty.

He lets them tell him they hate him.

In the mornings, I gather berries and apples.

I scrub his back with rind.

I weave spider-spit, eyelash.

He talks in his sleep pudding, fire, discus,

the things he misses.

He breathes, Your body is my orchard.

I am undulating grass.

I am a field of wheat he parts with his fingers.

Poppies bloom in my veins.

When he kisses me, he tastes pomegranate.

The night crawls nearer.

The moans of the dead roll and swell.

Mother, we are well.”

- Persephone Writes to Her Mother, Tara Mae Mulroy 

Oh my god I wish people weren't such asshats to you sometimes. Do they not realize the sheer quantity of messages you receive? Of course you can't always get to all of them in a timely manner or at all. Sorry about them.

Thank you for this message you sweet thing! I think people are always just somewhat surprised when I’m not always sunshine and light but I really can’t be when I’ve had a bad day or when someone is being unnecessarily rude. You’re so lovely though! xx

I’ve gotten to a stage where I can stand naked in front of a mirror and not entirely hate what...

I’ve gotten to a stage where I can stand naked in front of a mirror and not entirely hate what I’m seeing. Two years ago that was virtually unthinkable and I’m so thankful for the self love movement that says it’s okay to like how you look even if other people think there’s not much to like.

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