The First Known Poet In History, Enheduanna, Was An Iraqi Woman. She Wrote About Inanna On Tablets In

the things we learn right before midnight

what’s keeping you from sleeping?

nothing. i’m just not ready to hit the sack.

why’s that?

you really want to know?

yep.

okay. but i don’t want you to think i’m crazy or leave this bed running, alright?

i wouldn’t do that.

right. okay. hmm. so, 24 years ago, on the eve of my birth, my mom decided to deliver her child in a graveyard. the city’s farthest most forgotten graveyard. she’s an artist, though; a lover of contrasts & a chaser of the dark.

oh

july 21st, lost in the depths of a summer night amid traces of grief, sorrow & dried petals, my mum gave birth to a baby she’d almost immediately hold between her arms. i don’t remember this of course, but i’ve been told she murmured:

‘hey, little one. i need you to think of death as your friend. a mutual. an ally. a confident.’

from that day on - my entire life, basically- i’ve never slept before midnight.

i stay still by the side of my bed, patiently waiting for my oldest friend to come sit by my side.

once he shows up, we tell each other how life treated us that day in our own sides of the realm.   we then hold hands & together, we end the life of yet another day.

- @skinthepoet

* by Alexey Dubinsky

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air

Sylvia Plath, 1962 (via: skinthepoet)

Her fingers moving fast & brutal as if mapping blue edges of the unseen sky.

This is what it means to really want something. Her open mouth an iris ringed

with desperation deeper than shame. You’ll forsake everything if only to be real—

— Natalie Wee, from “Mirror,” Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

My friend makes me a mix CD and it’s the only thing that will keep me both  grounded and above ground for the next few weeks. But,  I don’t know this yet. Right now, all I know is that I must’ve walked through a fist fight in my sleep – I have the bruises, the bloodshed, but none of the glory. All I know is that I am a week of my worst days doused in gasoline. And somewhere, someone is standing with a matchbox in hand, waiting.

A.Y. // STARTING FIRES (via 2wentysixletters)

maghrib at home

Mouna Kalla-Sacranie © more here

You drift between earth and death which seem, finally, strangely alike.

L⚜ Louise Glück, Persephone the Wanderer  ( via: the-l-o-o-k-b-o-o-k )

I try to gain on thoughts Collected

Scramble to top For perspective

A mind is slippery With justification

It’s so easy / to pool / At the bottom