tanya rose's writings.
an insomiac spending all day in bed.
a pessimist fearing failure. a lioness heart, cowardly in love. the dragon that slays itself.
i dream. i create. i destroy. & repeat.
everything you read here is my own except the url & blog title, or if otherwise stated.
Everyone, check this out! It was such an honour to be included in the first volume, and even though I was too swamped to submit to this volume, there are a ton of great writers in this one and I know I’ll be grabbing a copy! You should too!Literary Sexts Volume 2 is now available on our website, Etsy, Amazon + as an eBook!
We are super-excited to share this hot little book with you, just in time for Valentine’s Day (+ check out our free printable if you decide to give it as a gift!)
Big love, gratitude + respect to all the contributors & our supporters!
Love,
amanda-oaks & alonesomes
xoxoxox!
(via amanda-oaks)
Yes, okay, my bones are made of
brittle hatred, you’ve hit the nail
through, but my blood—my blood is
made of ever-flowing, gut-pumping,
god damn flowery fondness—for
all which has invented those bones.
This is what we call a stagnate.
This is what we call a monster in love
with it’s Doctor Frankenstein, indebted
to the horrors which have allowed it to
live, however parasitical the means.
My mother assures me I am, deep down,
a good person. I do not know how to tell
her that goodness was a luxury the women
in this family could never quite afford, that
we’d all rather spend our wealth on terrible
somebodies, a thousand times over. This is,
after all, how I came to be.
This is what we call a tragedy:
I don’t know how to be your host
anymore, but I cannot show you the door.
You have always been my home.
— Tanya Rose, the long line of terrible somebodies
I’m sorry but it was the only way to know mine.
I do not want to be rescued.
I want to ruin.
How many broken homes will it take for you to realize
people are seldom searching for shelter?”
— Tanya Rose, five shocks to the system, for you or for me
twenty years
old, and people
write poetry
about this feeling.”
— we are all onto something | tanya rose
(Source: heardthecoldwindsay)
Where Are You Poet and Where Are You Artist is here!
We are looking for poets and artists to become a part of the Where Are You Press line up!
Are you a poet? We want to publish your chapbook! Send us your manuscript before August 22nd to be a part of our second annual submission contest!Are you an artist? We’re launching our first annual Where Are You Artist submission contest! Have your art be sold as a poster or sticker in the Where Are You Press etsy store! Submit before August 22nd!
Rules and guidelines can be found here!Good luck and we are stay posted for new updates and other Where Are You Press events! It’s a busy and sunny summer for us here and we’re so glad for y’all to be a part of it.
Sincerely,
The Press
(via whereareyoupress)
I can’t promise you that it will stop hurting.
I can’t tell you that the peach pit in your gut will dissolve,
but I can tell you that the bare branches in your lungs
will bear new fruit,
and you will learn to breathe again.
The hurting will be like the room in your basement
where you first made love, and one day it will return
to being the room where all the baggage is kept,
literal and figurative.
It is a part of where you live. It is not your life.
I cannot promise it will stop hurting, but it will hurt different.
Soon it will be the oxygen in your lungs, not the bile in your stomach, that characterizes the pain of their memory, and the orchid in your lungs will breathe:
You must hurt to live, but you mustn’t live to hurt.
— it doesn’t hurt (the same) | tanya rose
but I have been guilty of praying for a Saviour
in the form of a warm body to call my own and
a set of hands to clasp against my breastbone.
I have never needed faith because I have
always craved touch. I never needed religion
when I worshipped at the church of your heart.
I have nailed myself to a cross for you and called
it love. This is why I no longer believe in sacrifice.
I will not die for our sins to purify your aching heart.
I will not lose what makes me my own to better another.
I will not die on that cross. I will pry the nails from my
palms and rest them on your face, bloody. Who’s to decide
if this scene isn’t Holy?
”
I am made of North and South,
the offspring of a Gambler and a Surefire,
of careful cutting and reckless sensitivity.
I am my Mother’s booming strength,
I am my Father’s swooping lows.
I am of the same country’s blood,
different ends of the same vein,
the carotid artery that runs through
Italy slaughtered when North and South
made me: East, West, off the goddamn
compass.
I am not my parents. They are my map,
my directions to and from where I am
from but not where I am going.
I am made of North and South and I am
neither side.
I am on my own side.
”— which side are you on?
(Source: heardthecoldwindsay)
i won’t tell the exact truth, but i will speak of the truth
under the guise of my heart, where all truths lies neither exact nor varied:
there are days when the beating of my heart feels like a mockery.
how can something exist so rebelliously alive
within a home built entirely upon inhospitable, cowardly soil?
i’ve severed my heart’s roots, gave up ownership,
starved it of water and existed for long in places
devoid of sun, yet it lives.
it is convinced i am fertile.
i am convinced it is defiant.
i hope we are both right.