I wrote this poem when I was in college, and I thought I’d share it with you, since y’all have been so nice.
Wrap me in ivy because I want to suffer
a grave that looks like an Italian painting.
Give me red shoes because I want
to cut off my feet and I want the poison
on the teeth of combs so I can die
every day and don’t not grant
me every wish because I know you
don’t know “No.”
I want the tears of sick virgins
for baths and I want everything you say
to end in “you.”
My bloodiest of chambers scares
me more than it needs you.
I gave you my voice to scream.
This is when writing was kinetic… and obviously got really scary. Now I find it humorous! I don’t feel like this anymore; I struggle to remember a time when I did. I remember wanting to do something very dark. But it’s not really. It’s very surface level darkenss, not a whole lot of depth. Or maybe that’s just me rejecting it? Ever do that, when you find something you made and are so embarrassed by it/by who you were you must destroy it, as if its presence will somehow magically take you back or revert you to this perceived lesser version of who you are? I can feel the snakes and I’m writhing in my skin to get back to sentences. I’m in the process of moving and for someone who has gone out of their way to get rid of almost everything they own, I find I still own way too much stuff. Anybody want it? I promised myself I’d sneak this little bit to you.
I want the best for your day, I swear.
Greetings and Salutations ass readers! Exciting week on Coffee Cup Manifestos! It’s Vampire Week (like shark week!) starting this Monday so tune in for thrilling new posts from a variety of authors!
Hey folks that may read this!
I just wanted to introduce our newest butt toucher, the amazing Erin Ann Easley.
In case you haven’t noticed by her first post, she’s something more than awesome. She is also writing at Coffee Cup Manifestos,which is her new blog and promises to be enthralling.
If it wasn’t for her, I would be intellectually bankrupt when it comes to poignant critical thinking skills and just learning how to be a nice person and realize that life is, for the most part, great.
Here’s this for now:
Thanks for coming aboard lady. I love you, in the most unapologetic way.
Dear John Hughes,
I know you’re dead, and I’m really sorry to have to harass you when you’re probably doing something fun like reasserting your manliness somewhere in the primeval soup that could constitute some sort of heaven or realm of the afterlife. I hope you’re enjoying yourself, seeing as how you left an entire generation with “brat pack” movies, tons of drunken “I-can-put-my-lipstick-on-with-my-cleavage” impressions, and maybe even a bit of trauma. I need you to know this: as a young woman I blame you for cementing in celluloid what I as a girl was supposed to be like at the age of 16. Here’s why:
- No multiplicity. Girls deserve the same multiplicities as boys do! How dare you represent teenage femininity as having to be either a princess (Molly Ringwald), quirky but cute yet too shy or too much of a social outcast to be accepted until prom night (Molly Ringwald), or plain neglected and brimming with sexual tension (Molly Ringwald)… or as a Barbie doll that’s been brought to life by a pair of computer savvy boys? Meanwhile your boys get to be rebellious, active, open, and can grow up sans heartbreak.
- No healthy relationships. Girls in real life do not like being tossed into some sort of weird series of games/love triangles in high school or in ever. Usually, when your relationship is hinged on a date rape situation the feelings experienced do not resonate with wanting to go to the prom. It’s more like a significant drop in self-esteem, and feeling further ostricisized. Also, why do we, as girls, have to be embarrassed of who we are before we can get a date? Why do we have to go through a makeover if we’re not a princess already? Why do the boys have to have our underwear?
- Your movies are ultimately kitschy. I used to really like them, but then I realized that if I wanted to date Emilio Estevez, I would have to get a makeover. Every time that girls are upset, your movies have raised them to say to each other “Let’s give you a make-over! That’ll show him!” These sentiments are only further solidified by the stereotypes you mapped out in your films. These trends do not speak very positively of how teenage girls see themselves in their own skin, how to treat young boys, or how to deal with issues via retail therapy or a change in appearance that would result in a hegemonic standard of beauty that’s impossible to meet.
- Why couldn’t The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, 16 Candles, and Weird Science have had more girls that were empowered and happy with their skin, who weren’t boy obsessed, with a personality, and nice fashion choice? Why was the only girl that fit all of these requests happened to be a Barbie doll that you brought to life?
I’m bumpin’ the goose just thinking about Wednesdays. They are the tolling elevators of buildings for the week, and I’m really good at getting stuck in them. Seriously, I could quit my day job, the buttons don’t fucking work so there I am: livid, staring at the metal doors, electronic clock face, lights and noises to the standard carpet which begin to make me panic. I’d like to think that it won’t always be that way, that most things come to fruition, but I’m really impatient.
I’ve always felt pregnant with that ambition that’s either innate or inculcated in most privileged young women. there’s something oddly destructive about believing that there will always be room to improve, that there’s something you can do.. because there’s the chance that you invariably never will. talk about boys haunted by their fathers, girls grow up knowing they could always disappoint their mothers after their rights have been fought for, make their fathers feel failed, leave their siblings with bad examples, or even worse: succeeding and still feel like they aren’t good enough. it’s enough to give anyone a complex. having to live up to anything, and especially while being fully cognizant of the possibility of failure is quite the terror.
I wonder if other girls feel as I do: the victim of an unbound and incessant nausea, wake up in the middle of the night with such a shake it would make people vomit just to watch. sometimes I catch myself grinding my teeth in an effort not to hurl myself towards the nearest bathroom. I have the ghost of a festering ambition neatly tucked away somewhere in that gray area that could be the womb of my spirit and actual anatomy I believe. sorry if that sounds dramatic, but most things intrinsically are once you go about anatomizing them. before you know it, anxieties can develop into some kind of odd child that resembles the endearments of otherwise ghostly abortions. neurosis becomes a part of personality that hinders and accents you the way a heavy coat would. on your shoulders, noticeable, but not outright uncomfortable to most aesthetics. it’s like a damned woody allen joke, only I’d like to think I’m the cuter punch line.