Ashe Vernon's Blog, page 126

ANNOUNCEMENT:

Soon (not yet!!!) I will be opening up orders for a LIMITED EDITION chapbook called My Mother Didn’t Know. The book will include love/sex poetry, helpful sex ed information, and illustrations, all wrapped up in a cute storyline following the characters of “Me” and “You”.

The book will be 100% never-before-seen poetry from yours truly, and every single copy (every single copy!) will be signed + a personal message.

Orders are NOT open just yet, but I need you guys to help me start drumming up publicity for this little project!! The books will be $10, with free shipping within the US. Additional shipping costs for those outside of the US will vary based on country.

I’m hoping to have the cover finished soon so that you can all have a sneak peak!

"He’s got no substance, sunshine. You can feast yourself sick and you will still wind up starving."

“He’s got no substance, sunshine. You can feast yourself sick and you will still wind up starving.”

- Ashe Vernon (via daisies-and-goliath)

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I can't seem to forgive myself for the torment I've put my body through, the hours of binge eating, the food I ate while with friends, the food my mother fed me with love, the food I cooked for myself, all of it. The guilt keeps crashing down on me. The de

Depression is the rudest house guest I’ve ever known. He barges in without asking, he takes things that don’t belong to him, he moves the furniture and rearranges the kitchen until you can’t find anything anymore.

But he does not own this home, this body, of yours. You do. As unwelcome as he is, he cannot take you from you. I know that it feels that way, sometimes. I know that depression is a heavy, horrible thing.

I want you to know that you deserve to eat. Your body needs to be fed. You shouldn’t feel guilty for feeding it. This body is yours.

Sometimes, “okay” means getting up in the morning. Sometimes, “okay” means letting yourself cry when you’ve been trying not to. Sometimes “okay” doesn’t look like we think it’s supposed to.
That’s alright.
“Okay” will look different tomorrow.

That’s okay, too.

I bought "Wrong Side of a Fistfight" from Whereareyoupress, and I just wanted you to know that I found it to be absolutely phenomenal. I don't think I've ever felt poetry so deeply as I did while I was reading it. (I most definitely cried- more than once.

I’m a little bit speechless. Even though it did go through a thorough editing process, something about that book has always felt kind of raw and unedited/uncensored to me. Maybe it’s just because of the place in my life I was in while writing it, but there’s a part of me that’s always a little anxious knowing those poems are out in the world for anyone to read. To know they affected you like that–thank you. That means so much to me.

I bought "Wrong Side of a Fistfight" from Whereareyoupress, and I just wanted you to know that I found it to be absolutely phenomenal. I don't think I've ever felt poetry so deeply as I did while I was reading it. (I most definitely cried- more than once.

I’m a little bit speechless. Even though it did go through a thorough editing process, something about that book has always felt kind of raw and unedited/uncensored to me. Maybe it’s just because of the place in my life I was in while writing it, but there’s a part of me that’s always a little anxious knowing those poems are out in the world for anyone to read. To know they affected you like that–thank you. That means so much to me.