Twice 8 of 100 by Ainsley Burrows
a roused circle a folded myth a wooden bridge across the dark canyon the caressed sky the edges a canvas of moans ritual bliss buckets full her inner inquiry caught by impulse a manuscript of hip rotation slow down baby that’s before we got all evangelical and she was reverend promises and yes right there and I was the ridiculous Minster Eleven leg cramps and repentance ...
Anonymous asked: I imagine you live the perfect life.
1. It is cruel this way that you love. Only feeding your ego. Ego has a silly way of dancing its home into a frenzy. 2. You’ve been messing up my swag. You have me second guessing my movements. I am fluid. There is nothing solid about me. All I have ever been is ocean. All tropical and broken-winded heart. For a moment I thought I could be a rock, it turns out I am merely a valley. 3. ...
Anonymous asked: Who is your favorite painter?
Anonymous asked: Remember when we went to pinkberry and you gave that homeless man 100,000,000,000,000 dollars in cash and you started calling your self as a "barbie".lolololol. After that we didnt talk for 110 days i remember because cut myself every time you didnt call, text or write to me. :(. Kidding!!! Guess who! And give me a compliment. Hint : there was a hint there
Anonymous asked: The last painting you gave me is my mothers favorite work of art.
Individual black people/people of color often describe moments where they...– bell hooks, Teaching Community: A Pedagogy of Hope (via fuckyeahradicalquotes)
I have thought sky of too many men who have only known how to be glass ceilings.
I feel sick. My head feels like it has been to war. My eyes look like an orange sky. This is not the week to be sick. My younger brother will turn thirteen shortly, in just a matter of days. This year my grandfather would have taken him on a trip. This year my grandfather would have praised his art and the song that is his life. This year there will be no praise, no song. I am cold. I have a...
My aunt invites me over for dinner every monday night. Her house smells of lavender and burnt cane sugar. As she stirs the beans, peels the corn, cuts tiny pieces of tomatoes, I marvel at her hands, how gentle they dare hug a knife, how forgiving they seem. She cooks with love, everything is always sweeter than it should be. I pretend not to notice her eyes wandering aimlessly across my face...
When midnight crawled back into our mouths We were nothing more than trembling bodies An empty train station Echoing the distance between us I wanted to ask you, Where do we go from here? Yet, my lungs Knew nothing of language All I was Was breath No sound A corpse full of insecurities My bones screaming out reasons Why you wouldn’t kiss me that night I know now ...
Anonymous asked: do you miss any of your relatives?