“When our breasts arrived
as a kind of currency, we’d tug
our camisoles low, use
our newfangled bodies to haggle
with the ice cream man. The winner
was the girl who received her chocolate cone
for free, who sucked on candy cigarettes
the same way she wore a training bra.
That summer my pockets grew forests
of hand-tied maraschino cherry stems:
tampered evidence that I might one day be worthy
of kissing. In exchange for rides
on the handlebars of their bikes,
we’d let the boys bite
the beads off our candy
necklaces until the chokers
resembled punched out teeth.
From their slobber, blue and violet
stained my throat where the sweetness
had once been, so I suppose,
Your Honor, I was preparing
for him.”
– Megan Falley, “Beginning in an Ice Cream Truck and Ending in a Court Room” (via fleurishes)

(via passade)

The Problem of Fiction, Marie Ponsot.

presidents:

She always writes poems. This summer
she’s starting a novel. It’s in trouble already.
The characters are easy—a girl
and her friend who is a girl
and the boy down the block with his first car,
an older boy, sixteen, who sometimes
these warm evenings leaves his house to go dancing
in dressy clothes though it’s still light out.
The girl has a brother who has lots of friends,
is good in math, and just plain good which
doesn’t help the story. The story
should have rescues & escapes in it
which means who’s the bad guy; he couldn’t be
the brother or the grandpa or the father either,
or even the boy down the block with his first car.
People in novels have to need something,
she thinks, that it takes about
two hundred pages to get.
She can’t imagine that. Nothing
she needs can be got; if it could
she’d go get it: the answer to nightmares;
a mother who’d be proud of her; doing things
a mother could be proud of; having hips
& knowing how to squeal at the beach laughing
when the boy down the block picked her up & carried her
& threw her in the water. If she’d laughed
squealing he might still take her swimming
& his mother wouldn’t say she’s crazy, she would
not have got her teeth into his shoulder till
well yes she bit him, and the marks
lasted & lasted, his mother said so,
but that couldn’t be in a novel.

She’ll never squeal laughing, she’d never
not bite him, she hates cute girls, she hates
boys who like them. Biting is embarrassing
and wrong & she has no intention of doing it again
but she would if he did if he dared,
and there’s no story if there’s no hope of change.

Dear eighth grade boys:

tulletulle:

Stop making me feel like my body is my burden. Do I, or any other girls, find you to be attractive? Helllllll no. But we don’t stare at your bodies and then whisper to our friends! We are polite! I don’t know if this is because girls are told to keep quiet, or because we are totally over bullying, but whatever! You are assholes in many more ways, but I only have 8 more days of you! Then freshman year, you will maybe be a little more like real people, but not entirely, because you’ll want to make sure everyone knows how cool you are since it’s freshman year and there are all these new people! And by people, I mean chicks! For you to be rude to while making them feel like they’re lucky to have your rudeness bestowed upon them! And for you to grab their ass, and then make them feel like that’s supposed to be a compliment! Sexual harassment/assault is totally flattering! It means you like her! But not really, because you don’t like her enough to respect her space and comfort, you just like her body! And that one time I told one of you to not grab girls’ asses, you had all your friends come up to me throughout the day to tell me how mean I was to embarrass you! Also you all have AWFUL B.O., and AXE smells like shit, and Family Guy isn’t funny, and not showering isn’t a way to make a political statement, and FUUUUUUUU

/end rant

8 more days

Oh Tavi. I heart that final sentence so much. 

semisetadrift:
Tell me about it, Marjane.
See, the sad thing for me is, I don’t even know enough boys to suffer this predicament. I am just this woefully self-aware little girl robot in the corner, trying to make sense of human social cues. 

semisetadrift:

Tell me about it, Marjane.

See, the sad thing for me is, I don’t even know enough boys to suffer this predicament. I am just this woefully self-aware little girl robot in the corner, trying to make sense of human social cues.