It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to whatever song is playing in
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
Your good morning,
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
I want to talk about you.
"you said talking to yourself
is a good way to deal with pain
so i had a conversation with myself
all night long
confessed the ways i have hurt myself
and expressed gratitude for the ways
i have helped myself
i marked bruises with bloody hang nails
and kissed long untouched skin.
i stayed up all night
apologizing and complimenting
and fell asleep to the hum of my voice
when i woke up
i felt suddenly freer
and my sore vocal chords
hummed in relief and contrition
as i thought,
i am not a writer
i am a person who talks to themselves
— a poem i wrote after reading someone’s reply on a post i made, goodnight | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis
"1. I am selfish.
2. I am not looking at the bigger picture.
3. My mother felt this way, my father felt this way, and their mothers and fathers felt this way, so what chance was there for me?
4. I seek what is not there.
5. I make what is easy difficult.
6. I am looking for attention.
7. I think playing victim is charming.
8. I cannot let go.
9. Too much of me is spread between too many.
10. I do not let my bruises heal. I like how my skin feels when it is scarred.
11. He looks at me and I go limp with passivity.
12. I do not know how to touch, only how to be touched.
13. I pushed myself away to make room for others.
14. I try to make sense of myself to strangers who are not listening.
15. I have escape routes for getting out of my house, my friendships, my relationships, myself.
16. I ruin things for myself out of fear of them being ruined by others.
17. I expect Poetry to take care of me.
18. I am not trying hard enough.
19. I like the way this feels.
20. I want to be."
— I Am Sad Because…, or Reasons Others Gave Me, Lora Mathis
"What is there to say? Everything is hard. Returning phone calls. Not choking when I try to speak. Getting out of bed. What is there to do? I put foot in front of foot and trust that I will not wobble enough to give myself away. Pour concrete into my mouth to have an excuse for struggling with answering questions. Stare at the window. Look at hills and think of five years from now, of eventual sleep, of digging a hole and jumping inside. I train myself to half-listen when others speak and still hear the noise in my chest. I nod appropriately. What else is there? Get up. Go. Go. Go. Pause. Go. Accelerate. Go. Go go go. No stop. No exit. No time to reflect. Just experience after experience, and then the shaky seconds spent recovering from them. Pouring black coffee into wounds. Getting your feelings hurt over people who are not thinking of you in that way, have never thought of you in that way. Wasting time playing the game, the same game, hoping it will work this time around. I have put all of my effort into things that never wanted me back, in hopes that I could change the outcome. How else can I communicate this? I do not want to try anything, with anyone, anymore."
— Anything Anyone Anymore, Lora Mathis
"I take myself out to dinner and do not look at my phone once. I do not call a friend up and ask them to join me. I listen attentively to the conversation in my head. I walk with myself to the library. Read novels, magazines, dusty collections of poetry. Browse zines online and buy a stack of ones that catch my interest. I close my eyes in bed and put my hands in-between my thighs. Know when to go faster, when to slow down, when to speed it up. I moan without shame. I make myself coffee, sip it languorously on my balcony, let my bare shoulders be warmed by the sun and ignore my neighbor’s sideways looks. I put on lipstick on the days I am not leaving the house. Walk around confidently, wearing only underwear and carelessness. Shake my limbs to the busting beat of a song and do not worry about my arms going one way and my legs another. I bite down hard on “monogamy.” Swish it around in my mouth, run my tongue over its bumps and curves, and then spit it out. I bleed on scraps of paper. Let my thoughts out. Listen to them more intently than any person could. I see all parts of me and do not blush. I do not look away. I do not try to run. I stare deeper. Force myself to keep eye contact. Accept all that is inside of me. Make my apologies. I bend my hands in forgiveness. I rise, dripping in the blood of past and future guilt and say, it is okay. All of you. All of me. It is okay."
— In A Committed Relationship With Myself | Lora Mathis
would u call this narcissism or self-love pt. 2 (via lora-mathis
people who type lol when theyre mad are the people you have to watch out for theyll fucking stab you in the back in a dark alley and steal your wallet whispering “lol” all passive aggressively into your ear. same goes for “lmao”. Watch out
"Suddenly you’re 21 and you’re screaming along in the car to all the songs you listened to when you were sad in middle school and everything is different but everything is good."