Creative Commons License
This work by Abigail S. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. SO IT GOES
SO IT GOES


→ Jul 2014
→ Jul 2014 LUV when people steal my art :-)
→ Jul 2014
→ Jul 2014
Anonymous: Hey, so when I was in 9th grade, I met this guy. or rather ran into him in the hallway and the first time I looked up at him, I was just... stuck. We ended up having a thing but it was high school and it ended because I had a boyfriend at the time and i was too scared to break up with that boyfriend and it hurt him because we both were eachothers first loves, and our first kiss was like fireworks. It's been about 5 years since. He is 2 years older than me, and I pined after him and we-TBC

rest of msg under read more along w/answer!!

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→ Jul 2014 unadoptable:

"And now I can’t wait to go to sleep"
→ Jul 2014
Anonymous: I need a pep talk! (16 f) I'm with this guy and I've never liked anyone as much as him. I'm inviting him over next week and I think we're gonna fool around but every time I do something sexual I start to physically shake :( any tips for staying calm?

i don’t deal with that problem but i think if you take your time and don’t push yourself and try to make sure you’re getting air/breathing evenly you should be okay!! if you start to feel overwhelmed just stop and gather yourself, he’ll understand :)

→ Jul 2014
→ Jul 2014 uliakw:

Winter 2014im so fucking talented woah
→ Jul 2014 extrasad:

ewalex:

lipstick covered magnet // the front bottoms

HELPE ENEMRNKS ME
→ Jul 2014 corsicans:

you’ve got fire in your heart (par Kristin x)
→ Jul 2014 corsicans:

not always (par katie.drew)
→ Jul 2014
aliciabreanne: Your poetry is honestly so beautiful. I couldn't stop reading.

!!!!! THANK YOU !!! you’re a doll xoxo

→ Jul 2014 "

The first man to name me “goddess”
was twenty-one and drunk on rum.
Breath heavy with lust and booze, he told me
that most nights he carved poems into the walls trying to write me alive in the room with him,
so when the light hit the scrapes just right,
he could catch his breath for a minute.
I was just fifteen, all ivory thighs and wild eyes,
but still he held my spine between his teeth and spun words off his tongue like thread—
they wrapped around me in a throat-crushing tangle,
but when my limbs began to struggle,
I convinced myself it was some sort of embrace.
One night he called me saying,
“Babygirl, you gotta open your window and stare out at that moon. Isn’t it beautiful, baby? Look at the sky holding up that massive thing all on its own. Damn, you’re just like that, you know?
You’re my sky.”
My frail bones were cracking under the weight of the rock he sickly called devotion—
instead of shattering, I let him become a solar eclipse
and never looked back at him again.

The second boy came to me on his knees at seventeen:
a past lover replaced with steel skin and iron irises.
I’ve never heard a voice as cold as his was, begging for my touch and dripping false sincerity off the edges of his lips.
He cried, “I didn’t know I needed you until you were gone. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m just fucked up in the head.
Maybe you can soothe the ache in my soul if you kiss it just right with those words of yours.
You’ve always known just what to say.”
Each whisper echoed with a heavy blow that rung in my ears
and bruised my bones so deeply that I still feel them in the marrow.
As he spoke, I could feel those phantom-fingers that once fit so well between my thighs
beginning to curl around my ankles,
so I stepped on them.

The third man held nineteen years in his fists and
told me I wrote like words were poison,
as if I needed to pull them out of my gut as quickly as I could scratch them down, just so I wouldn’t choke.
Now I was sixteen and slinking around in ink-black stockings,
lips red and bloody from tearing the hearts of men out of their sleeves with my teeth.
He claimed I was wild like nothing he’d seen before.
“You’re wise for your age,” he declared. “You remind me of a Burroughs novel; I just can’t seem to understand you.”
I tried to unwrap my heart and serve it to him,
all raw and brutal,
but he returned it untouched, replying, “Stay quiet, now, darling, I don’t want to hear it just now. It’ll spoil it all, you see.”
To him I was a character, a fetishized fantasy,
and he’d cover his ears if I ever tried to speak
outside of a poem.

See, men only seem to stumble upon me in the dark,
as they grasp and fumble for something to swallow to convince their starving hearts
that they’re worth beating.
They hear my words as a siren call and drink me down in heavy doses.
Then, they crush me between their fingers and grind the dust into the ground with their heels so they can keep trudging along,
toting their tragedy behind them.
In their swollen eyes, I am only a poetic panacea.
But god, in the time that it’s taken for my rubble to reform into this shape they call a body,
I have grown thunderstorms in my skin and collected tornadoes under my tongue.
Yes, I’ve been told many times by those who try to solve me
that I exist only so that I may be destroyed
for the sake of others,
but instead, I have become a forest fire,
and I will burn myself alive to tear down
the thicket in my path until
I’m standing in the wake of my
destruction as merely
human.

" — "I Am Not A Cure" by Abigail Staub (via guiseofgentlewords)

hey…peep this poem I wrote this morning….

→ Jul 2014 inducere:

frisso—n:

dark006 (by aidankoch)
→ Jul 2014 I