I found Paris a hundred years late, Colette is sleeping in Pere Lachaise.
My ear to the stone I can hear her sing, "Nous nous reveillons."
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    Why are people in power less likely to use first-person pronouns? Well, quite simply, because they are less likely to talk about themselves.

    But of course you and I don’t share referential meaning. These pronouns correspond to two entirely different people, and you have no choice but to use I if you want to say something about yourself. In some sense, then, counting pronouns doesn’t tap into how we communicate so much as what information we are compelled to share.

    — 9 months ago
    Cold. Hard.

    Earlier this week, I surprised myself by telling a self truth on someone else’s Facebook page. I didn’t hesitate, just wrote it out and there it was and then I clicked Submit and my truth was in the world.

    And nothing happened.

    It felt good, and I cried a little, because of the pain of the truth not the telling. It was cold and hard but it was mine so I told it. And I made it through. And now I’m a better person because less of me is hidden.

    — 1 year ago
    "But they still cannot find a gender-neutral term for manhole cover. In a world where we can find a gender-neutral name for men who menstruate, they’re just not trying hard enough."
    — 1 year ago

    “we get bored with the routine
    and crave beauty
    and excitement
    fire is beautiful
    and we know that if we get
    too close it will kill us”
    —The Coming of Archy by Don Marquis

    — 1 year ago
    You Are Not Christ

    You Are Not Christ
    New Orleans, Louisiana

    For the drowning, yes, there is always panic.
    Or peace. Your body behaving finally by instinct
    alone. Crossing out wonder. Crossing out
    a need to know. You only feel you need to live.
    That you deserve it. Even here. Even as your chest
    fills with a strange new air, you will not ask
    what this means. Like prey caught in the wolf’s teeth,
    but you are not the lamb. You are what’s in the lamb
    that keeps it kicking. Let it.
    This poem first appeared in the Collagist.

    Source: Poetry (November 2012).

    — 1 year ago
    The Fury Of Rainstorms by Anne Sexton

    The rain drums down like red ants,
    each bouncing off my window.
    The ants are in great pain
    and they cry out as they hit
    as if their little legs were only
    stitched on and their heads pasted.
    And oh they bring to mind the grave,
    so humble, so willing to be beat upon
    with its awful lettering and
    the body lying underneath
    without an umbrella.
    Depression is boring, I think
    and I would do better to make
    some soup and light up the cave.


    — 1 year ago
    I’m an ocean in a teaspoon

    I’m an ocean in a teaspoon
    and I hope I don’t fall out. I’m held in
    by salt and the benefit of the doubt.

    But silver can tarnish and wear
    right away, then you’re an ocean
    with no shape to stay.

    It’s salty and tired and fading.

    I am salty and tired and fading.

    — 1 year ago
    The Truelove

    "…you want to live and you
    want to love and you will
    walk across any territory
    and any darkness,
    however fluid and however
    dangerous, to take the
    one hand you know
    belongs in yours.”

    The Truelove — David Whyte

    — 2 years ago