Ashe Vernon's Blog, page 117
January 7, 2016
"You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re..."
“You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
"If I keep writing poems about you
and no one ever knows that you read them,
are they still..."
“If I keep writing poems about you
and no one ever knows that you read them,
are they still self-indulgent?
I mean, a tree falling in a forest, right?
How do I tell the nonbelievers that love
only ever made sense in poetry, or
that our unraveling was one
of the most romantic things
that’s ever happened to me?
When am I supposed to stop talking about it?
How many ripples in the lake do I create
if I skip stone after stone after stone
and all of them sound like your name?”
- QUESTIONS by Ashe Vernon
and no one ever knows that you read them,
are they still self-indulgent?
I mean, a tree falling in a forest, right?
How do I tell the nonbelievers that love
only ever made sense in poetry, or
that our unraveling was one
of the most romantic things
that’s ever happened to me?
When am I supposed to stop talking about it?
How many ripples in the lake do I create
if I skip stone after stone after stone
and all of them sound like your name?”
- QUESTIONS by Ashe Vernon
"Dear mother,
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am the place where too many
good men..."
“Dear mother,
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am the place where too many
good men have gone
to die.”
- LONELY POET FINDS HERSELF, A BURIAL GROUND by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am a hangman’s noose.
I am the place where too many
good men have gone
to die.”
- LONELY POET FINDS HERSELF, A BURIAL GROUND by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
"You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your..."
“You’re twenty-two years old, with a lifetime of
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
broken self-esteem weighing on your back.
You’re doing okay, though: wearing lipstick in shades
that make you look least afraid of being alive.
But then you go and fall into bed with a boy
whose waist is hardly as big around as your upper thigh,
and you spend the next month trying to figure out
why someone like him would ever want all
of this.
I am trying to be the woman
who wears her body in double digits,
but does not dress her mouth in apologies.
The woman who could not be cowed
into finishing school quiet,
who does not sit with her knees together,
who does not have a pretty laugh,
who still believes she is beautiful,
even when she is the big one in the relationship.
But society tells me there is too much of my body
for it to be worth anything. See,
you can’t solve a recession by printing more bills.
To have in excess is to have practically nothing.
When a diamond’s not rare, it’s just a rock.
When my body is too big, its value depreciates:
one step down for every pound over perfect.
I spent years unlearning this, but it never went away.
Proven by how terrifying it is to be touched
by beautiful boys with pianist’s hands
and thin hips.
I have preached self-love to anyone who would listen,
only to be proven hypocrite, snake in the grass,
unbeliever in the pulpit.
So this body is my temple, and all it took
was a pair of thin wrists to destroy it.
Every kiss raises questions I am afraid
to put words to.
When he touches my stomach
I have to force myself not to push his hands away.
When he takes too long to answer a text message,
I can’t stop the feeling that this is it:
this is where the daydream crumbles,
where he comes to his senses,
where reality floods back in.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,
for the rug to get yanked out from under me,
for a girl who looks like him to come along
and ruin everything.
But he is still here. Soft and sharp and gorgeous.
There is no part of me he is afraid to touch.
I don’t know how to get rid of my fear.
But there’s something else underneath:
something warm and honey gold and light.
Nobody says my name
the way he does.
When I’m with him, I don’t feel like too much.
I’ve spent a lifetime feeling flavor-of-the-week.
Maybe this is the beginning of believing
in my own permanence.
I know better
than to put my self-worth in anyone else’s hands–
even hands as beautiful as his.
I’m not asking him to create my value.
I am standing here, head held high,
declaring myself inherently valuable
and daring him to prove me right.”
- SKINNY BOYS WITH BEAUTIFUL HANDS by Ashe Vernon
January 6, 2016
Do you answer all your messages?
I wish I could. But I have hundreds of messages in my inbox, and on top of that being just too many for me to get to all of them, there’s also lots of messages that I don’t feel equipped to answer. I do my best to answer as many as I can, but it would be impossible to answer everything.
I read every message I receive, and I appreciate how many of you have reached out to me. I’m sorry that I can’t answer all your messages.
January 4, 2016
"Cut off all your hair.
Trade in your lion’s mane for a crown of your darkest secrets.
Wear it like..."
“Cut off all your hair.
Trade in your lion’s mane for a crown of your darkest secrets.
Wear it like the proudest thing you’ve ever loved.
Learn to love the soft prickle of the short hairs
at the nape of your neck.
Touch them softly.
Learn to love yourself, next.”
- I did it. Thanks Ashe Vernon ( @latenightcornerstore) for giving me the courage to change.
Trade in your lion’s mane for a crown of your darkest secrets.
Wear it like the proudest thing you’ve ever loved.
Learn to love the soft prickle of the short hairs
at the nape of your neck.
Touch them softly.
Learn to love yourself, next.”
- I did it. Thanks Ashe Vernon ( @latenightcornerstore) for giving me the courage to change.
wordsdancemag:
Did you get Amazon Gift Cards for Christmas?!...
Did you get Amazon Gift Cards for Christmas?! You can support us + some of your favorite Tumblr writers if you wish because all of our books are on Amazon including:
Belly of the Beast by Ashe Vernon (aka @latenightcornerstore!)
January 3, 2016
I’m never shutting up about this lipstick, sorry not sorry
I’m never shutting up about this lipstick, sorry not sorry
January 2, 2016
sext: I can’t talk about anyone’s mouth without thinking of yours
sext: I can’t talk about anyone’s mouth without thinking of yours
This photo doesn’t do justice to just how devastatingly...
This photo doesn’t do justice to just how devastatingly perfect this shade of lipstick is
