If you’re protesting abortion, the Supreme Court says you can get right in women’s faces and scream at them on their way into the clinic. Because freedom of speech.
But if you try and protest the murder of a black man, you get tear gas fired at you.
You knew you liked her when
she was talking about her life one day
and in the street the drunk women were fighting
and the young men were playing house music
and there were Muslims praying amidst all this
and the taxis were honking their horns all around her in a circle of chaos
so she went back inside in all her calm
and where the two of you are now, in a different town
and different time, there are dogs barking outside
and you love the way
her name feels behind your mouth.
She puts cinnamon on tomatoes
white pepper on carrots
mustard seeds on unlikely things
and takes wine and ice with breakfast.
She sits awake at night
and dreams with open eyes
so you are not afraid to tell her
every time you want to run.
There was a time when fingers on
white walls made you nervous
a time when you didn’t pray so much
a time when you worried about what the men in the street had to say
a time when you weren’t yourself
they tell you you’re an abomination to God
how so? You speak to God more often now
than ever before.
She sketches jellyfish
smokes a broken white pipe
and you feel like an instrument
that she’s had for years.
You pool pennies together
for dinner, most nights
but you’re happy.
You are. You’re happy.
'she puts cinnamon on tomatoes'
Yrsa Daley-Ward, ‘bone.’
now available at amazon.com(via yrsadaleyward)
When it is but it aint
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes. Folds in on itself. Eats its insides. Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants. Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at 4am smelling like everything outside. Asks about your ex. Is jealous of your ex. Thinks everyone a rival. Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse. Some of us love horrid, love beastly. Love sick love anti light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t sleep with itself cannot contain itself, catches fire, destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing. Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies. Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Sea sick. Says yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body. Dances wild and walks away, smiling.
it seems that everyone i’m friends with is better friends with someone else and that really fucking sucks