Ohhhhh hi internet.
SPIRIT ANIMAL - Abigail Zimmer

I’m afraid to suggest squirrel because 
even now, rooting about for some 
remembered happiness, I know 
to retreat from the morning 
and sleep with arms tucked under
like chicken wings. I wish I could 
order my spirit animal online, 
have it come packaged in small parts
which I assemble on the kitchen floor. 
Something that looks like a wing 
or fin or genitals would confuse me 
and I would call my dad for advice. 
What does your gut tell you? 
he would ask, before pulling out 
A Field Guide to Birds of North America
which I gave him on a birthday 
when I forgot his birthday. I want 
something to walk to the lake on 
Saturday mornings, let loose in water.
Sing! I sing, because I know no other words 
When my friend invites me to dinner, 
we tear into forbidden meats 
and fall asleep, hands clenching 
a bit of fur, bodies expanding 
in bulk, another row of teeth.

(via Jellyfish)



Via / Src


by Zoe Dzunko

If you know anything about
misattribution of arousal
you might understand
that we are not machines
and I’m not certain we
ever really loved each other.


Zoe Dzunko called us from Melbourne, Australia.
More about Zoe.


[soundcloud] [podcast] [facebook] [twitter]


tonight, a (50s-ish) male bartender told me i was “beautiful,” so i didn’t have to tip him because my “presence” was tip enough. i said thank you & gave him my payment & turned to leave. he then continued to tell me how “gorgeous” i was. i voiced my discomfort. he responded by telling me that “even with my attitude,” i’d “better fucking come back & see him tomorrow.” i mumbled something about needing to leave & he hollered after me about me “giving it” to him.

not that it matters, but i was out with a girlfriend because i was emotionally exhausted by the disgusting misogyny of the past few days & needed a break. i was horribly anxious, horribly depressed, & horribly fucked up. i haven’t washed my hair in a week. i’ve been living on a diet of zucchini, whiskey, & a religiously-timed schedule of uppers & downers. i’ve barely left my house because of how generally not fucking okay i feel. there was a rosary under my shirt tonight. i hoped maybe that would keep me safe.

this is how scared i am.

i am on the verge of packing my apartment & my girls & hauling ass to texas or iowa or hades—fuck the semester, fuck my students, fuck the phd. i just wanted some cognac. that’s all. i just wanted to go drink hennessey with my friend & bitch & cry & not give a fuck for an hour. instead, i got sexually harassed.

that’s what it’s like to be a woman. you’re reminded at every single god-forsaken turn that your sole purpose is to be a fucktoy. nothing else. no brain, no voice, no emotions, no desires. you are a body.

please, though. tell me more about how rape culture isn’t a thing & how ALL THE TIME women make up false accusations against men & how we’re OVERBLOWING this whole “patriarchy thing.” seriously, please educate me on how we don’t need feminism in america today. please, i’m begging you. isn’t that what you want, after all? me to beg?


I love the poetry world. I really do. It’s an automatic, unguarded love that I might outgrow someday but not yet, not yet. When I go to a new town, I like to find the poetry shelf of whatever the local bookstore is and run my fingers along the spines like I’m thumbing the pages of a yearbook, looking for any name I can match to a face and conversation. The eccentric good-ness of this writing community has seen me through many a dark night.

We owe it to each other to shepherd that goodness, and that means recognizing when something has gone very wrong.

My poor man, so full of addendum,
driven through the asphalt to occupy the space
of a shit lake, shit river, shit rat god.
When you are mine you become animate
capable of burning selfies in the shit lake.
— Natalie Eilbert, “Man Hole”
Via / Src
I Don't Feel Brave


I’m so tired of this. And this. And this. Ad nauseam. It never stops. I’m afraid it will never stop. it will never stop.

I’ve spoken to very few people about the details of my relationship with my abusive ex-boyfriend. How, over the span of two years, he never cared about consent, how “rape fantasies” were just another way for him to legitimize control over my body while he held his hand over my mouth, how he threw tantrums when I said I didn’t want to have sex and managed to have sex with me anyway, about how haunted I still feel about letting him do this to me, that maybe it wasn’t so much “rape” in many cases as I just felt too beat down emotionally to say “no,” that maybe I owed him constant sex because he was my boyfriend, how I suffered a six-month yeast infection from birth control side effects and how when I went off birth control he still refused to wear a condom, how he promised to pull out and didn’t, how I had to take Plan B twice because he wouldn’t wear a condom and wouldn’t pull out, how he coerced me into sexual acts that made me bleed on the sheets, that left wounds and scars, how he expressed disapproval over how I dressed, how he wanted me to dress like a trophy girlfriend while telling me he loved me and it was all for me, how he coerced me to cut my hair a certain way, how we took a 10-hour train to Montreal and he was turned away at the border because of a rape conviction he had never told me about and wasn’t allowed to leave the country, how we took a bus back to New York in the middle of the same night, how I believed he didn’t do it even though he had already raped me repeatedly, how I denied even that fact, how he ignored me the whole bus trip back to New York because I had asked 6 hours earlier if we were taking the right bus (and how dare I question his authority), how I started making myself throw up before going to parties with him so I could stay home alone in my bed, how when I moved to Massachusetts for grad school and broke up with him he threatened to kill me, sent me a box full of things I had given him, including shirts he wore with phrases scrawled in red ink like “this is what I wore when we first met,” “this is what I wore when I first knew I loved you,” screamed “rot in hell” over and over on the phone, and “this hurts worse than when my dad died,” how I had to give campus police a photo just in case he came to town to make good on his death threat (he helped me move so knew where I lived), etc., etc., the details wear on and on and on.

Most of the time I am too sick to write about this, even to myself; instead, it is a running catalogue in my brain I try to puzzle through, sort out, try to stop blaming myself for all the times I could have walked away. It is difficult to walk away when someone says “I love you, and you’re making me a better person,” “I will be a better person,” “I love you more than anything.” It’s difficult to walk away when the person you love isn’t abusive or terrible all the time, and can fool everyone else in your life into thinking he is a charming, caring person. How I am told that relationship rape and assault and psychological manipulation aren’t “as bad” as rape from a stranger, that it is somehow not legitimate, that I should have known better. I’m so sick of living with this, and I’m sick of other women living with it, and I’m sick of the backlash women get for speaking out. I am speaking out. 

I recently ran a background check on him, and found out he moved back to Oklahoma where he grew up. Part of me was truly, honestly disappointed to know he is not dead. But, a small wave of relief did wash over me: Maybe now I can go back to New York without having a panic attack every single time? But that’s obviously such a small part of it. I will be living with this relationship the rest of my life, and fuck him for that.


If you don’t understand what victim blaming is, simply read comments on a “gossip blog” post that describes the rape of someone you care about.


ACTUALLY—if you’re annoyed by my constant shouting about this women’s safety//rape, i suggest you keep fucking following me. and look inward. and think about what you’re doing to contribute to rape culture. and about what you’re doing with your body. and your brain. and your power. and your voice. 

you want me to be quiet? fuck you. i’ll shut up when my girlfriend—an aunt to a 3 month old baby girl—doesn’t have to tell me ‘it’s not a matter of if a women will be sexually assulted. it’s a matter of when.i’ll shut up when my friend natalie can ride her bike down the street without being told ‘i hope you get raped.’ I’ll shut up when a brilliant 18 year old girl doesn’t have to live in fear of her rape story going public (and by the way it did) because ‘she doesn’t want to break her fathers heart.’ i’ll shut up when i don’t have to read sentences like ‘imagined what it would be like to be raped violently. I tried to feel grateful that he wasn’t hitting, punching, stabbing, or suffocating me.’ 

you want me to be quiet? fuck you. i will shut up when you stop raping women.


Yo, if you’re annoyed by my constant shouting about this topic, i suggest you please unfollow me now.