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Almost all of the work on this blog is my own, including all poems and short fiction/non-fiction pieces. Anything signed with the initials LA is my own work. Please feel free to send me feedback, negative or positive. John is my amazing boyfriend, who also writes poetry. Check out his blog, link above! I try to follow back writing blogs/similar blogs, but it will be under my main blog url!

"If you’re dating a writer and they don’t write about you — whether it’s good or bad — then they don’t love you. They just don’t. Writers fall in love with the people we find inspiring."-Jamie Anne Royce

You want tenderness from the deepest recesses of your heart.
And you want it in the form of Sunday morning breakfasts
and palms cupping around each other on quiet walks around town.
You want it in the heights of passion.
You want tenderness to ruin every orgasm with an “I love you.”
You want to stroke me like a fucking kitten that you rescued from the pet shop and you want me to purr in response.
You want me to be waiting for you at every corner, dressed in the clothing you picked out, open armed.
You want me to want your tender caresses that make me sick to my stomach
and you want more than mere tolerance.
You want tenderness, you want to own me.
You want my tenderness as a sign of your ownership.
If I gave you such vulnerability, darling you would still have nothing, but I would own less of myself.
You always think that loving me can fill in the gaps in your heart, but dearest, I do not wish to be inside of you. When I look inside my heart,
my lungs, my liver, the branches that twine out are all blooming with flowers that are in the shape of mine own face.
They do not require your presence to grow.
Why shouldn’t it be that way?
Why do you resent me for not needing you?
Don’t you see?
The thorns of tenderness have already taken root inside of me, I have already been pierced by them a thousand thousand times.
And when the small child of my soul regenerated, it looked like no one else but myself.
I came out of the hurricane whole—

Darling I wish for you to have these things.
One day I wish that you will look in the mirror
and see all the branches of tenderness twining through your heart
and I hope that the buds on the branches are the color of your skin, with the shape of your eyes imprinted on them, and I hope that they reach out to cup your face.
And I hope that then, despite my utter absence,
you feel whole enough to love me without owning me.

"Thorn," L.A

Before you call your sisters crazy
Think about the fact that getting paid 77 cents for every dollar that a man makes
And then being told that that’s equality because at least it’s progress so shut the fuck up
Can get rather annoying like a broken record that won’t stop turning because it loves the sound of its own voice.
Before you call your sisters crazy
Think about that day in fourth grade when you asked your mom if you could wear a bra and she told you that you weren’t ready yet as if the female body was some sort of social commodity only available to be bought and sold once, on your wedding night. Think about how the week after you got your capital P Period and went hurdling into womanhood faster than light speed and the whole time all you could think about was that mom was wrong wrong wrong.
Before you call your sisters crazy
Think about the fact that every time you every raised your voice in class that one semester a man’s voice rang out louder. Think about how every time in high school when you attempted to call yourself a feminist someone scoffed from the back of the room as if feminism was passé, as if the very fact that they laughed didn’t prove the need for its existence.
Before you call your sisters crazy
Before you call them sluts,
Think back to when you were 16 and alone in a boy’s room and he couldn’t even find your clitoris because feminine sexuality was a mystery best left up to God’s rapists up in heaven hell on Earth. Think back to how you were expected to get on your knees and suck girl, suck, while he never placed his head between your legs and licked that place you yourself had been too afraid to touch because fuck, girls don’t masturbate doncha know.
Before you call your sisters crazy
Think about that time when you as one in five women in the world were raped think about how one in five is twenty in one hundred, think about how even if you are the four in five whose bodies aren’t treated like they don’t possess a soul you still owe the one in five the respect that an ear or a hug or a tear can lend.

Before you call your sisters crazy
Think about the fact that if they are (they aren’t)
They certainly have the right the be.

L.A , "If You’re a Woman and You Aren’t Insane, I Salute You"

i have no clue what this is but here you are

i have no clue what this is but here you are

This is the first thing I’ve written in a while. I think there will be more soon. 

This is the first thing I’ve written in a while. I think there will be more soon. 

wow i swear im not depressed or anything sorry for the depressing poems oh well. 

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