Ashe Vernon's Blog, page 130
November 13, 2015
"To the person I will be when the depression
isn’t quite so heavy, please tell me you..."
“To the person I will be when the depression
isn’t quite so heavy, please tell me you remember
the way the stars in
middle-of-nowhere New Mexico
left you sobbing. Remember
all the beautiful moments that
softened the heartbreak.
Remember that you have kissed
more best friends than you haven’t.
Remember how safe you felt with them.
Maybe now, you don’t feel like you have to
give everyone your body to be worthy of their time,
but please remember the weight
of sharing a bed when you are at
your loneliest. Remember how these people
carry parts of you that you were afraid
to carry for yourself. I hope whoever
is warming your bed, now,
is as gentle with you
as they were.
For the day when I have it all figured out:
I don’t want to know the ending.
As tempting as it would be
to reach forward into the future and ask
if I ever find a time when I am okay,
I don’t need to know all of the answers.
My story is unwinding like a spool of thread.
I lost track of where I started–
left it back somewhere in the minotaur maze
that my life became after the depression.
If I chase my life all the way to the end of the thread
I will be left with nothing. And I don’t know
how much I believe in palm reading,
but I’ve got a long life-line–
broken with uneven heartache but
still going.
A psychic once told me that
I had seen death
three times.
If only she knew how often death
made an appearance in my bathroom mirror,
how I greet him as casually as an estranged neighbor.
If only she knew how I learned
to turn him away.
Dear person I will be when I am not
this–
I’m coming.
Save a seat
for me.”
- A CYNIC’S LETTER TO HER FUTURE SELF (part 2) by Ashe Vernon
(part 1)
isn’t quite so heavy, please tell me you remember
the way the stars in
middle-of-nowhere New Mexico
left you sobbing. Remember
all the beautiful moments that
softened the heartbreak.
Remember that you have kissed
more best friends than you haven’t.
Remember how safe you felt with them.
Maybe now, you don’t feel like you have to
give everyone your body to be worthy of their time,
but please remember the weight
of sharing a bed when you are at
your loneliest. Remember how these people
carry parts of you that you were afraid
to carry for yourself. I hope whoever
is warming your bed, now,
is as gentle with you
as they were.
For the day when I have it all figured out:
I don’t want to know the ending.
As tempting as it would be
to reach forward into the future and ask
if I ever find a time when I am okay,
I don’t need to know all of the answers.
My story is unwinding like a spool of thread.
I lost track of where I started–
left it back somewhere in the minotaur maze
that my life became after the depression.
If I chase my life all the way to the end of the thread
I will be left with nothing. And I don’t know
how much I believe in palm reading,
but I’ve got a long life-line–
broken with uneven heartache but
still going.
A psychic once told me that
I had seen death
three times.
If only she knew how often death
made an appearance in my bathroom mirror,
how I greet him as casually as an estranged neighbor.
If only she knew how I learned
to turn him away.
Dear person I will be when I am not
this–
I’m coming.
Save a seat
for me.”
- A CYNIC’S LETTER TO HER FUTURE SELF (part 2) by Ashe Vernon
(part 1)
"I’ve spent the last few months
trying to figure out
if I was the one
who dragged you under
or if i..."
“I’ve spent the last few months
trying to figure out
if I was the one
who dragged you under
or if i was the one
who drowned.”
- For the Mermaids, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
trying to figure out
if I was the one
who dragged you under
or if i was the one
who drowned.”
- For the Mermaids, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
latenightcornerstore:
“The poems you are about to encounter...
“The poems you are about to encounter are the fierce time capsules of girlhood, girded with sharp elbows, surprise kisses, the meanders of wanderlust. We need voices this strong, this true for the singing reminds us that we are not alone, that someone, somewhere is listening for the faint pulse that is our wish to be seen. Grab hold, this voice will be with us forever.”
– RA Washington
GuidetoKulchurCleveland.com
My brand new book, Belly of the Beast, is now available here via Words Dance Publishing, and also on Amazon and Etsy. And you can purchase it in eBook format!
It has been a joy, an honor, and a truly life-changing experience to work with @amanda-oaks in bringing this book into the world. This is, very literally, a childhood dream come true, and I could never have made it to this point without the help and support of all of you.
You have my most sincere thanks, all of my heart, and this labor of love which I offer now, to all of you.
I wrote this book for myself. And I wrote this book for you.
Here’s to us.
Ashe, your poetry is so inspiring. I absolutely love how fierce and fearless your writing is. I was wondering where could I find your poetry revolving around the themes of loneliness and depression.
Here is my depression tag (this link won’t work on mobile, but just search “depression” on my blog). I hope it helps.
I just want to say I love Bad Habits for an entire library of reasons!
Thank you!!! I’m really glad! That’s an old one that, for whatever reason, still holds a special place in my heart. I’m glad it resonated with you
November 12, 2015
"You were the one who held his hand
after the fist fight that left his knuckles
like red wine on..."
“You were the one who held his hand
after the fist fight that left his knuckles
like red wine on fresh-turned dirt.
All this time, and I always wanted to ask
if his blood on your hands
felt some kind of sacred.
I don’t think either of us were ever
any good for him.
Because you loved him bruised,
and I loved him bloody–
I know how it sounds, believe me, and
I have torn through rabbit holes
hunting for a better heart,
but I’ve got a weak spot for broken boys
and that
is my most disgusting feature.
You may not have loved him well,
but at least you loved him halfway whole.
Me? I would have kissed
the broken teeth from his mouth
and kept them all for myself.
I would have cracked open his crème brûlée chest
and eaten out the insides–
hung up his twisted x-rays on my walls
so I could never forget the look of a ruined heart.
I don’t break them myself, you see.
I just go collecting in the aftermath.
Grave robber for the still alive:
I may not kill anyone,
but I have never been afraid
to take what I need
to survive.”
- Bad Habits, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
after the fist fight that left his knuckles
like red wine on fresh-turned dirt.
All this time, and I always wanted to ask
if his blood on your hands
felt some kind of sacred.
I don’t think either of us were ever
any good for him.
Because you loved him bruised,
and I loved him bloody–
I know how it sounds, believe me, and
I have torn through rabbit holes
hunting for a better heart,
but I’ve got a weak spot for broken boys
and that
is my most disgusting feature.
You may not have loved him well,
but at least you loved him halfway whole.
Me? I would have kissed
the broken teeth from his mouth
and kept them all for myself.
I would have cracked open his crème brûlée chest
and eaten out the insides–
hung up his twisted x-rays on my walls
so I could never forget the look of a ruined heart.
I don’t break them myself, you see.
I just go collecting in the aftermath.
Grave robber for the still alive:
I may not kill anyone,
but I have never been afraid
to take what I need
to survive.”
- Bad Habits, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
November 11, 2015
"I held on so long, I think,
because when the ship was sinking,
you looked more like the shore..."
“I held on so long, I think,
because when the ship was sinking,
you looked more like the shore
than the lifeboat ever did.
And if I know anything for certain,
I know it wasn’t love.
It was spitting flowers into our eyes
and calling it spring.
That’s the kind of blindness
that leads a body to the sea
and calls drowning by softer names:
Slow dancing into the ocean,
giving our lungs to salt water.
We were lost like a ship on the rocks–
Kissed by the sirens into the waves.
To think I used to find it romantic
to go losing yourself inside other people.
But everything reads like a love song
when you’ve got a heart caught in perpetual spring.
So this is me weeding you out–
Pulling you up like dandelions
even after years of keeping to myself.
And my garden is all the better for it.”
- Fools at Love’s Table, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
because when the ship was sinking,
you looked more like the shore
than the lifeboat ever did.
And if I know anything for certain,
I know it wasn’t love.
It was spitting flowers into our eyes
and calling it spring.
That’s the kind of blindness
that leads a body to the sea
and calls drowning by softer names:
Slow dancing into the ocean,
giving our lungs to salt water.
We were lost like a ship on the rocks–
Kissed by the sirens into the waves.
To think I used to find it romantic
to go losing yourself inside other people.
But everything reads like a love song
when you’ve got a heart caught in perpetual spring.
So this is me weeding you out–
Pulling you up like dandelions
even after years of keeping to myself.
And my garden is all the better for it.”
- Fools at Love’s Table, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
November 10, 2015
"Ever notice how, when we’re kids,
they call us boys and girls.
And there’s no wiggle room in titles..."
“Ever notice how, when we’re kids,
they call us boys and girls.
And there’s no wiggle room in titles like that.
And maybe it feels a little suffocating,
and maybe it feels right.
But I grew up, found my curves and my voice—
hair in the places we’re not allowed to talk about.
And all I hear about are, even now, all these men
and girls.
Girls.
Like while they were busy getting older,
I got stuck in this prepubescent wet dream,
where boys with hungry hands run fingers
down my hairless thighs
and heave humid breaths at the seam of my neck.
See,
I noticed men have this way
of using infantile language like love poems.
You’re his “girl”–
You’re always gonna be his “girl”
He rattles it off like the sweetest kind of promise,
and dresses you up in your best doll clothes,
and this is what you’ve got.
This is what you’re given.
Ladies! How many of your fathers ever told you
you would always be Daddy’s Little Girl,
even after you were paying your own mortgage?
And exactly how many eight year old boys
have watched fathers go off to work,
go off to war,
to get told they’re man of the house, now.
Even though they’ve got two older sisters,
with high school diplomas,
even though they’ve got a mother
with hands made of the same kind of marble
they build monuments out of–
but no.
That little boy, can’t even reach over the counter,
that little boy, he’s a man, now.
I don’t know how many years I’m expected
to stave off the rougher parts of womanhood.
I gotta buff out my wrinkles,
I gotta paint on my face.
They don’t get to see all of the things that make me.
See, I’ve got these beautiful stretch marks
that break like creamy tributaries
over my thighs.
So I wanna know, what makes me girl
and what makes me woman?
And how come I’m not the one
who gets to decide?”
- Girl, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
they call us boys and girls.
And there’s no wiggle room in titles like that.
And maybe it feels a little suffocating,
and maybe it feels right.
But I grew up, found my curves and my voice—
hair in the places we’re not allowed to talk about.
And all I hear about are, even now, all these men
and girls.
Girls.
Like while they were busy getting older,
I got stuck in this prepubescent wet dream,
where boys with hungry hands run fingers
down my hairless thighs
and heave humid breaths at the seam of my neck.
See,
I noticed men have this way
of using infantile language like love poems.
You’re his “girl”–
You’re always gonna be his “girl”
He rattles it off like the sweetest kind of promise,
and dresses you up in your best doll clothes,
and this is what you’ve got.
This is what you’re given.
Ladies! How many of your fathers ever told you
you would always be Daddy’s Little Girl,
even after you were paying your own mortgage?
And exactly how many eight year old boys
have watched fathers go off to work,
go off to war,
to get told they’re man of the house, now.
Even though they’ve got two older sisters,
with high school diplomas,
even though they’ve got a mother
with hands made of the same kind of marble
they build monuments out of–
but no.
That little boy, can’t even reach over the counter,
that little boy, he’s a man, now.
I don’t know how many years I’m expected
to stave off the rougher parts of womanhood.
I gotta buff out my wrinkles,
I gotta paint on my face.
They don’t get to see all of the things that make me.
See, I’ve got these beautiful stretch marks
that break like creamy tributaries
over my thighs.
So I wanna know, what makes me girl
and what makes me woman?
And how come I’m not the one
who gets to decide?”
- Girl, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
November 9, 2015
"What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them..."
“What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them up like circus attractions
on the inside of our own chests.
We carry the weight of them,
and call it surviving.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the ones who grew up
walking tightropes,
is that we only look so graceful
because we never learned
how to climb down
and we call this
remarkable.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the illusion
is that I am as much lion
as I am lion tamer.
And I got good at inflicting pain
the same way I got good
at soothing it.
This, we call unfortunate,
but inevitable
and sure.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones
is how raw we all are,
just below the surface:
how the roar of the crowd
feels like a city burning;
how we love like immolation;
how we leave nothing but dust
in our wake.
.
We call this
poetic justice.
What they didn’t tell you
about us
is that we’ve learned so well
that we only have to be cruel
once.”
- The Gentle Ones by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
about the gentle ones,
is how we keep all our hurts in cages,
and line them up like circus attractions
on the inside of our own chests.
We carry the weight of them,
and call it surviving.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the ones who grew up
walking tightropes,
is that we only look so graceful
because we never learned
how to climb down
and we call this
remarkable.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the illusion
is that I am as much lion
as I am lion tamer.
And I got good at inflicting pain
the same way I got good
at soothing it.
This, we call unfortunate,
but inevitable
and sure.
.
What they don’t tell you
about the gentle ones
is how raw we all are,
just below the surface:
how the roar of the crowd
feels like a city burning;
how we love like immolation;
how we leave nothing but dust
in our wake.
.
We call this
poetic justice.
What they didn’t tell you
about us
is that we’ve learned so well
that we only have to be cruel
once.”
- The Gentle Ones by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
