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Look girl, you are a holy ocean into which boys willingly plunge. They are standing on your shore, dying to drown in you. Look girl, we can all tell you hold too many untouched continents to count. We have our flags ready, hoping that you will let one of us claim you. Here is the truth: You are not like the others. You ring in our ears, you tangle our vocal chords. We sing you in our sleep. You are not like the rest. You are a bruise, you are a stain. And when you leave, the memory of you long remains. Your laugh is louder, your heart a shouter, your skin a secret we hope to breathe. We speak you like a promise-true, not yet ruined, always slightly out-of-tune. But, like all good things, you are so easily cracked and broken. You contain so much of what we want to be that we threaten to drain you completely. So, I tell you this: Keep your hills green, your lakes full of fish, your sunsets unphotographed. We will do nothing but cover you in slobber. Keep your trees standing, your passion demanding, your heart shining like the moon. When we come by the shipload, turn us away. We will only mark you, then leave. And you deserve so much more than our footprints on you.

I Have Thrown You Into The Sky Because That Is The Only Place You’re Safe | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

Today I will be reblogging poems I wrote for my best friend. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MINDY! I love you. 

(via lora-mathis)

today is the second anniversary
of the day you left him.
you were only sixteen
and got away with a
stamp on your heart
in the shape of his fist,
warning future lovers:
I am damaged goods.

when i handed you a bouquet of
wildflowers for the occasion,
you gave me a small smile,
confused as to why i would
remind you of the fields
he pinned you down in.

but wildflowers
are not intentionally planted
and your untame heart was
kicked into the soil by love
and forced to bloom.

and you have been told
that you must grow strong and proud
in whoever’s hands pluck you,
that it is not pretty to wilt.

but you are not just a box
with handled with care
taped across it
and pretty is not enough to
describe you.
you are strong,
and beautiful,
with a stamp on your heart that says:
i am a wildflower,
don’t you dare tell me where to grow.

You Are A Wildflower | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

I am more than: my relationship status. My job. My age. My sexual orientation. My degree or lack of. My last name. My appearance. My gender. My sex. My short comings.

I am: rusted thoughts. A bloody tongue. Every city I have breathed in. Every bedroom I have loved in. Piles of words. Twisted metaphors. My thoughts. My actions. My dreams.

And I am not looking to be loved. I am looking to be seen.

I Am Not | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

this is very true but i still forget about this often

(via lora-mathis)
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
to understand
a poem i wrote after reading someone’s reply on a post i made, goodnight | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

lora-mathis:

self-portrait
san diego, 2014
Lora Mathis 

I feel vulnerable and prone to danger when I am walking around at night, even in my quiet, uneventful suburban neighborhood. Although I tell myself to not be so paranoid and that it is in my head, I cannot help feeling uneasy and unsafe. I hear my mom’s voice telling me that I should not walk home from work alone. I hear the teachers at my old college, informing students of attacks on young women making their way to their cars. I remember the violent attacks on women in my friend’s neighborhood that made her sleep out for weeks. I want to walk around at night without fearing for my safety or having scenarios of sexual assault and violence run through my head. I want to feel comfortable where I live, in the body I am in. Standing naked in the middle of a line of garages, as vulnerable as I could be, was both scary and exhilarating. It forced me to breathe in my fears for ten still seconds and recognize how consuming thoughts of rape culture and my vulnerability are, though they usually sit somewhere right below the surface, always there, always nagging, always reminding me of what can happen if I am not careful enough, not smart enough, not lucky enough. 

It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your brooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to bend
to whatever song is playing in
your head.
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
tangled hair.
Your good morning,
every morning.
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
perfections.

I want to talk about you.
Flawed. Crooked.
Endlessly
interesting.
You.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via larmoyante)
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