Ashe Vernon's Blog, page 137
October 18, 2015
"I AM WORTH MORE THAN THIS.
I AM WORTH MORE THAN
SCRAPS
MORE THAN
LEFT-OVERS.
I AM WORTH MORE..."
“I AM WORTH MORE THAN THIS.
I AM WORTH MORE THAN
SCRAPS
MORE THAN
LEFT-OVERS.
I AM WORTH MORE THAN
THE OVER-SPILL OF LOVE
YOU HAD FOR THE ONES
WHO CAME BEFORE ME.
I AM NOT ASKING FOR YOUR
RECONSTITUTED
RECYCLED
REIMAGINED
HAND-ME-DOWN LOVE NOTES.
I AM NOT ASKING FOR THE
BACKWASH OF THEIR MOUTHS
IN THE CORNERS OF YOUR
KISSES.
I AM ASKING FOR BETTER.
I AM ASKING FOR MORE.
I AM ASKING FOR ALL OF IT.
I AM ASKING FOR MYSELF.
I AM ASKING
BECAUSE I REFUSE
TO SETTLE,
ANYMORE.
And I’m not asking nicely.”
- BACKWASH, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
I AM WORTH MORE THAN
SCRAPS
MORE THAN
LEFT-OVERS.
I AM WORTH MORE THAN
THE OVER-SPILL OF LOVE
YOU HAD FOR THE ONES
WHO CAME BEFORE ME.
I AM NOT ASKING FOR YOUR
RECONSTITUTED
RECYCLED
REIMAGINED
HAND-ME-DOWN LOVE NOTES.
I AM NOT ASKING FOR THE
BACKWASH OF THEIR MOUTHS
IN THE CORNERS OF YOUR
KISSES.
I AM ASKING FOR BETTER.
I AM ASKING FOR MORE.
I AM ASKING FOR ALL OF IT.
I AM ASKING FOR MYSELF.
I AM ASKING
BECAUSE I REFUSE
TO SETTLE,
ANYMORE.
And I’m not asking nicely.”
- BACKWASH, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
October 17, 2015
"Which is worse?
The ones who kiss you
but don’t want to read
your poems or
the ones who..."
“Which is worse?
The ones who kiss you
but don’t want to read
your poems or
the ones who wouldn’t
love you if you didn’t
write them in the
first place?”
- Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
The ones who kiss you
but don’t want to read
your poems or
the ones who wouldn’t
love you if you didn’t
write them in the
first place?”
- Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
"Story of a girl who thought nothing would ever happen to her.
Story of a girl who got out of bed..."
“Story of a girl who thought nothing would ever happen to her.
Story of a girl who got out of bed this morning.
Story of a girl who loved harder than she cried,
and she cried a lot.
Story of a girl who painted her skin
so she would like it better.
Story of a girl who did away with
what she used to hide behind,
who stood naked in the street
and dared the world
to judge her.
Story of a girl deemed worthy,
despite every reason she felt
like she wasn’t.
Story of a girl looking for someone to hold her.
Story of a girl running from it.
Story of a girl who felt like a girl
more often than she didn’t.
Story of a girl who felt like a firefight.
Story of a girl who sewed
brass knuckles into her skin,
who fought with kisses instead of fists,
who kept putting her mouth
where she wasn’t supposed to.
Story of a girl who talked big.
Story of a girl who loved loud.
Story of a girl with no white knight
no dragon
no tower.
Story of a girl who is still
trying to rescue
herself.”
- BEDTIME STORY, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
Story of a girl who got out of bed this morning.
Story of a girl who loved harder than she cried,
and she cried a lot.
Story of a girl who painted her skin
so she would like it better.
Story of a girl who did away with
what she used to hide behind,
who stood naked in the street
and dared the world
to judge her.
Story of a girl deemed worthy,
despite every reason she felt
like she wasn’t.
Story of a girl looking for someone to hold her.
Story of a girl running from it.
Story of a girl who felt like a girl
more often than she didn’t.
Story of a girl who felt like a firefight.
Story of a girl who sewed
brass knuckles into her skin,
who fought with kisses instead of fists,
who kept putting her mouth
where she wasn’t supposed to.
Story of a girl who talked big.
Story of a girl who loved loud.
Story of a girl with no white knight
no dragon
no tower.
Story of a girl who is still
trying to rescue
herself.”
- BEDTIME STORY, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
OKAY BUT I MAKE A SUPER CUTE TEA BARISTA,
LOOK AT THAT ORANGE...
OKAY BUT I MAKE A SUPER CUTE TEA BARISTA,
LOOK AT THAT ORANGE APRON
"Two years ago, you were all white knuckle and grit.
You abandoned your softness in a cardboard..."
“Two years ago, you were all white knuckle and grit.
You abandoned your softness in a cardboard box
on the side of the road—decided it was
someone else’s problem, now.
Two years ago, your depression was
an undiagnosed monster in the pit of your stomach
and it swallowed everything.
You felt like a cardboard cutout of a person;
you felt like TV static.
You wrote yourself into something ugly
so that you didn’t have to be so soft–
so small, so honey-heart.
It didn’t work, did it?
Take a good look at the person you become
two years from now: look
how she is frayed at the edges
like hand-me-down lace. Look
how her bones are too old for her,
how they creak like a house
full of someone else’s photo albums.
Look how soft she is:
like you could press your hand right through
her stomach and
come out the other side. She knows, that
every boy you fall in love with between there and now
takes you for granted.
Every girl who lets you kiss her
stops texting you back.
That you keep filling your empty bed,
because you don’t know how to fill your empty chest.
Trouble is, you keep falling in love with open wounds
then acting surprised when you are left with nothing
but blood in a lifeboat.
It’s time to stop sinking.
You are important,
even if no one ever likes your poetry.
You are important,
even if he doesn’t love you back,
even if she’s only interested in sleeping with you,
even if he isn’t.
Your voice matters, even if no one listens to it.
Your worth does not come with
clauses and conditions.
It does not disappear
with no one to validate it–
you
are valid.
Even if no one else thinks so.
Two years from now, you will be soft.
You will be all split-ends and paperbacks.
It will hurt.
And it’ll be okay.
These are the growing pains we never grow out of.
I know
you never asked to be born.
But that’s because people don’t ask
for miracles: they are given.
You exist, even though it would be
much easier for you not to. Even though
there are literally billions of events
that had to happen before you could happen,
which makes you
one of the most improbable things in existence
and yet, you are here.
But I don’t expect you to say thank you.
There is too much ache in your upbringing.
There have been too many bad days.
Two years ago,
you declared war on your gentle everything.
It will take the full two years to realize
the only one you’re hurting
is yourself.”
- SELF PORTRAIT DRESSED AS A SELF-HELP PROGRAM by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
You abandoned your softness in a cardboard box
on the side of the road—decided it was
someone else’s problem, now.
Two years ago, your depression was
an undiagnosed monster in the pit of your stomach
and it swallowed everything.
You felt like a cardboard cutout of a person;
you felt like TV static.
You wrote yourself into something ugly
so that you didn’t have to be so soft–
so small, so honey-heart.
It didn’t work, did it?
Take a good look at the person you become
two years from now: look
how she is frayed at the edges
like hand-me-down lace. Look
how her bones are too old for her,
how they creak like a house
full of someone else’s photo albums.
Look how soft she is:
like you could press your hand right through
her stomach and
come out the other side. She knows, that
every boy you fall in love with between there and now
takes you for granted.
Every girl who lets you kiss her
stops texting you back.
That you keep filling your empty bed,
because you don’t know how to fill your empty chest.
Trouble is, you keep falling in love with open wounds
then acting surprised when you are left with nothing
but blood in a lifeboat.
It’s time to stop sinking.
You are important,
even if no one ever likes your poetry.
You are important,
even if he doesn’t love you back,
even if she’s only interested in sleeping with you,
even if he isn’t.
Your voice matters, even if no one listens to it.
Your worth does not come with
clauses and conditions.
It does not disappear
with no one to validate it–
you
are valid.
Even if no one else thinks so.
Two years from now, you will be soft.
You will be all split-ends and paperbacks.
It will hurt.
And it’ll be okay.
These are the growing pains we never grow out of.
I know
you never asked to be born.
But that’s because people don’t ask
for miracles: they are given.
You exist, even though it would be
much easier for you not to. Even though
there are literally billions of events
that had to happen before you could happen,
which makes you
one of the most improbable things in existence
and yet, you are here.
But I don’t expect you to say thank you.
There is too much ache in your upbringing.
There have been too many bad days.
Two years ago,
you declared war on your gentle everything.
It will take the full two years to realize
the only one you’re hurting
is yourself.”
- SELF PORTRAIT DRESSED AS A SELF-HELP PROGRAM by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
Saw your post about virginity- our condom broke and I've just switched onto a new birth control (like not a week yet) but I've been on different brands of birth control since last August. Will I be alright?
More than likely, you will be fine. If it’s been less than 72 hours you should go pick up Plan B (the morning after pill) just to be safe. If it’s been longer than that, just wait it out and keep your fingers crossed.
Good luck, darling.
October 16, 2015
"Bring me the girls still rough around the edges,
who never knew the word ‘pretty’–
girls with teeth..."
“Bring me the girls still rough around the edges,
who never knew the word ‘pretty’–
girls with teeth for tearing.
Bring me the bruised knuckle girls,
the heavy-hearted girls,
the girls who got locked up in towers
and found a way out.
Bring me the girls
who kept he roses with the weeds,
the callous and the thorns.
Bring me the girls
with exoskeletons of iron,
hands worked to the bone.
You were not beautiful enough for them,
but you are beautiful.
You are viscous and hungry,
tall and terrible,
You are more than they made of you.
You are hurting.
But you are powerful.”
- BRING ME THE GIRLS, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
who never knew the word ‘pretty’–
girls with teeth for tearing.
Bring me the bruised knuckle girls,
the heavy-hearted girls,
the girls who got locked up in towers
and found a way out.
Bring me the girls
who kept he roses with the weeds,
the callous and the thorns.
Bring me the girls
with exoskeletons of iron,
hands worked to the bone.
You were not beautiful enough for them,
but you are beautiful.
You are viscous and hungry,
tall and terrible,
You are more than they made of you.
You are hurting.
But you are powerful.”
- BRING ME THE GIRLS, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
"This isn’t a poem.
This is two a.m. in the backseat of your car,
picking my heart out of the..."
“This isn’t a poem.
This is two a.m. in the backseat of your car,
picking my heart out of the upholstery.
It’s a trick of the light:
shapes in the darkness.
It’s the monster under your bed that
followed you into your twenties.
This is what your lungs look like
after a lifetime of smoking.
This is cigarettes through a stoma.
This is what you do with the Lonely
when it pats you on the back
and holds your hair–
when the hangover has nothing to do
with the alcohol.
You make room for it.
Lonely crawls in bed with you and
you pull back the covers.
What else are you supposed to do?
Nobody told me Lonely was this ugly.
Nobody told me Lonely looked like me.
Nobody told me Lonely and I would get good and cozy.
That days can feel like months
can feel like steam.
I’m writing a letter to my teenaged self:
Stay away from this one and that one
and this one. Trust me,
it’ll be easier that way.
How many years have I carried my heart
like a coin purse? Handed it out
like loose change?
Heart in a sandwich bag–
school science project–
how many licks to the center
of a tragic backstory?
I didn’t wallow in it;
I made friends with the Lonely.
I walked it out to the water.
I held its hand when it tried to drown me.
I painted on the bravest face I know.
I survived heartache by the handful—
so, no. Hard as you tried to hurt me,
you’re not special.
You’re the flavor of the week and trust me—
I’ve had better.
This isn’t a poem,
this is digging you out of my bones
with a carving knife.
I don’t know much about love,
but it’s not supposed to hurt.
It’s not supposed to hurt.”
- NEW NAMES FOR OLD HEARTACHES, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
This is two a.m. in the backseat of your car,
picking my heart out of the upholstery.
It’s a trick of the light:
shapes in the darkness.
It’s the monster under your bed that
followed you into your twenties.
This is what your lungs look like
after a lifetime of smoking.
This is cigarettes through a stoma.
This is what you do with the Lonely
when it pats you on the back
and holds your hair–
when the hangover has nothing to do
with the alcohol.
You make room for it.
Lonely crawls in bed with you and
you pull back the covers.
What else are you supposed to do?
Nobody told me Lonely was this ugly.
Nobody told me Lonely looked like me.
Nobody told me Lonely and I would get good and cozy.
That days can feel like months
can feel like steam.
I’m writing a letter to my teenaged self:
Stay away from this one and that one
and this one. Trust me,
it’ll be easier that way.
How many years have I carried my heart
like a coin purse? Handed it out
like loose change?
Heart in a sandwich bag–
school science project–
how many licks to the center
of a tragic backstory?
I didn’t wallow in it;
I made friends with the Lonely.
I walked it out to the water.
I held its hand when it tried to drown me.
I painted on the bravest face I know.
I survived heartache by the handful—
so, no. Hard as you tried to hurt me,
you’re not special.
You’re the flavor of the week and trust me—
I’ve had better.
This isn’t a poem,
this is digging you out of my bones
with a carving knife.
I don’t know much about love,
but it’s not supposed to hurt.
It’s not supposed to hurt.”
- NEW NAMES FOR OLD HEARTACHES, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
Hey guys! Rent is still an issue for me, right now, but I have good news!! I only need to sell 17...
Hey guys! Rent is still an issue for me, right now, but I have good news!! I only need to sell 17 more copies of Wrong Side of a Fistfight and I’ll have enough money for rent!!
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You can get my book, here, on Amazon. You’d be helping me out so much if you did.
Belly of the Beast was a book about weaponizing softness as a method of overcoming trauma and abuse. Wrong Side of a Fistfight is about rediscovering that softness and moving forward. This is a book for anyone who has ever felt alone, who has ever felt like they keep loving and loving without having that love returned.
Please consider supporting me and my little pink book.
