“The truth is I ride the bus and hope that I see you.
I cross my legs and uncross them, hold my own hand.
The piano in my living room is never touched.
I can’t stop eating peanut butter with my fingers.
My shorts are too short, probably, and this is the reason
that strange men stop and look at me as I walk past them.
I check my teeth for traces of lipstick,
forget to look both ways before crossing the street.
I am not always careful with the body I’ve been given.
Sometimes I want to dye my hair purple or cut it off
and give it to a child with cancer. Sometimes I am selfish
and never want to cut it, ever. Everyday it is the same
number of bobby pins. I want to find a poem in this.”—Kristina Haynes, “The Truth Is” (via fleurishes)
“It’s a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, “Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn’t love me. He just couldn’t deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.” Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll—then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.”—Zadie Smith, White Teeth (via tryhowandwhy)