csoip - Down The Rabbit Hole
Down The Rabbit Hole

poetry archive and a main for other tendencies. too sentimental to give it up but the day tumblr lets me switch primaries i will rejoicemostly @crossbackpoke-check here

211 posts

Uranus Has A Bad Reputation

uranus has a bad reputation

that they don’t deserve. uranus knows all the whores & fuqbois & faggots. they don’t always deserve it either. there’s a club for people like them: the membership list is written on the insides of bathroom stalls, sent in group texts, gossiped about behind a hand over a mouth familiar with the lips of someone who was in it. uranus doesn’t know why people make jokes & laugh at their expense. everybody’s talking but nobody’s telling them. (doesn’t mean they don’t hear it.) uranus knows all the secrets about drinking till you forget & having sex like it doesn’t matter & the drugs to make you feel better than high. that’s the bad part. all anyone ever says is about how to save someone from themselves. no one ever talks about what happens when they don’t need to be saved. how you can be okay & not be what’s expected. how the “whores” & “fuqbois” & “faggots” grow up to be alright. how they grow past what people think & knowing what you can do is better than not having tried at all. but it is never once easy. nobody ever notices the scars on those whores’ wrists because they’re too busy with the body. nobody looks past the face to see the mind inside. and god forbid they see the love and not the sex that everything is objectified to mean. but if they want it: own it. give them the anarchy, give them the sex, take the reputation that precedes you and walk into the room, two fingers up to yesterday saying fuck the whole universe. tear it down to make your own.

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More Posts from Csoip

8 years ago

an all-nighter with planet mercury

four planets in retrograde
and we sit under the full moon to lament
our crazy revolutions. 
mercury, the rare bastard, hides in the shadow of the light,
nothing like the rest of them. a day that lasts hours and a smallness inside your bones, never knowing how to sleep because the night never seems as long. they don’t know what it means to be made of availability, the closest and the remainders of what is left. we both have hands full with drops of this monthly blood, a body’s rejected life shimmering down the side, fingers curved tenderly but still silver slips its way through the cracks.
leaking out to leave empty palms and the moon shines silver too, the stars, who are we to raise our hands and say that we belong in this night with a longing buried deep to leave? too tired to think about what it means. mid-night mercury turned to say unguarded in a hollow voice: i just feel so small, in comparison. so close, and quiet, and less. i feel like i am nothing. (not nothing. never nothing.) underneath such long nights guiding us to oblivion we cannot be nothing on the horizon. i know, mercury sighs, face half-hidden in the blinding light. and still i am so much more and so much less than what i want to be. i can’t find a way to stop myself from spilling out of my hands.


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8 years ago

such impermanence

what hungry animal is inside you starving, for love or some other strange affection. you beat it when it asks for too much. say: that’s enough. keep it ravenous and wanting, too weak to cause trouble. strong enough it doesn’t die to rattle your self-control once a month, year, however long you can put it off. don’t acknowledge the tears inside your linings, don’t ever need anything. that startling want breaks you, makes you long for such impermanence as love. there’s a reason i write about rib cages and women: you were made from the bones of a different breed. our ribs do not belong to us, and that ache always feels foreign even after centuries. a reminder you could not be contained just within yourself. you had to be made fleeting, imprisoned fading. had to be kept hungry so you could not be anything other than a mouth with which to swallow whole. from the wild you were made to want what could only be given. always that impermanent thought, taught to hold in and not take, take, take to appease your inner self. never having enough in the bones you were given, still trying to bite more. keep the beast and throw the body to the wolves- the insides will starve itself to death anyway. we were not meant to last forever. we were not even meant to live this long.


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8 years ago

DEAR MEN:

this is not a poem to say i hate men. but-

i am cat called by cars on three separate occasions on the same stretch of road while i am running just in one week and there are only so many times you can say fuck you before someone takes you up on it.

i am not flattered. i am always afraid.

because the men on motorcycles at a rest stop say hey dear in that voice, and suddenly i don’t want to stop.

because they make fun of women for going to the bathroom together when they know what happens when we go alone.

because a man buys a drink for me and it’s fruity and i don’t want it and i’d rather have a whiskey.

because i eat and i am called fat and i don’t eat and he goes babe, do you have an eating disorder or some shit? i don’t want to deal with that.

because i want to pay for my own dinner so you don’t have to deal with that.

because a man buys me a whiskey and i don’t want it and i’d rather have a sangria.

because i would like to buy my own damn drink.

because i go to work out at the gym and i can feel them looking at me, i can feel it itching over me.

because one of them slaps me on the ass and says look at that to his friends when it jiggles.

because it was like a gunshot and i am still flinching.

because it was a touch and i am still flinching.

because it was a long time ago and i am still flinching.

because every day there are these men and they don’t understand that i am a person and not a body and a human and not a body and i am a woman and not a body and this body is not your own.

dear men: you are one letter away from mean.

dear men: i don’t hate you*

*all.

dear men: sometimes i love you. too much. sometimes i need to let you go.

dear dad: i love you too. this is not a poem about you, for once. it’s about them.

dear men: THIS IS NOT YOURS. dear boys: learn from this. dear men: LISTEN TO THIS. dear women: do not take this.


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8 years ago

foreign(or) god

god comes down to say hi sometimes, stepping out with the people of all race and ages. god has an accent no one can discern. god is an immigrant stumbling over the foreign languages of grief, emotion, not recognising the subtleties between happiness and happy-in-this. and even god suffers from cognitive dissonance, can’t say anything the same way we do. trying to find the right words and only coming up with something we won’t understand or will tend to misinterpret. half the time god doesn’t even know what he means, those misharmonised thoughts making less and less of a self when put together. god is a collection of parts we have assumed fit him without asking. god wears the twice worn pants of someone else and has to hem them by hand. god is tired of this. god was tired when he heard this. god speaks softly so as not to wake the demons we tell children about when they come here: loneliness and depression and never really belonging. there is something so sorrow-filled in the way he begins to recognise we cannot do not want to be saved. god walks away and we justify his actions to ourselves as if he had done the atrocity. god has a limit to forgiveness and it starts with desecrating kindness. god has all the accents of the people we have turned away.


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7 years ago

bitter kisses

i eat lemons alone, no company because afterwards everything tastes sweeter. every breath is now sugar, an aftertaste of acid burning tissue.

does everything on your skin feel soft after it’s been burned?

another lemon, mint, and the air tastes cold. metal between my hands is warming; i am freezing to death.

suck on the pulp and kiss everyone good bye. i leave a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. i leave a bitter sweetness on their tongue.


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