basorexia*
Status:
I'm the chipped nail polish people mistaken as crackle on your thumb.
Joined: December 24, 2013
Last Seen: 5 months
user id: 376671
Location: in your nightmares
Gender: F
Joined: December 24, 2013
Last Seen: 5 months
user id: 376671
Location: in your nightmares
Gender: F
114
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400 Favorites
10 Following
15 Followers
4 Comment Points
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Flair
400 Favorites
10 Following
15 Followers
4 Comment Points
Comments
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Comments by User
Quote Comments by User
Flair
Relax, darling. I've been coming out of my cage, and frankly, I've been doing just fine. ;)
basorexia*'s Favorite Quotes
so what's the point? you go to bed with the same thoughts
of yesterday, then you wake up only to find that life hasn’t
changed one bit. you are still alive, but what are you alive
for?
Is she naked because you love her or do you love her because shes naked?
when we were 12 we could sing the
quadratic formula to the tune of a christmas carol, but we
didn't know what to do when we didn't like asked us
out.
when we were 13 we could name exactly how and why blood gets oxygen and how it gets to our heart, but we could not explain why our hearts and breathing both stopped when we saw each other.
when we were 14 we could describe the overarching theme of social inequalities within "to kill a mockingbird", but we did not care that our cafeteria was seperated into cool and not cool by pillar.
when we were 15 we could write pages and pages about the way trade off the coast of India evolved and was affected by monsoon seasons, but when a storm knocked the power out for two weeks, we found ourselves with nothing to do, no way to connect.
when we were 16 we knew every rule in calculus: exponential, power, logarithm, the product rule, the chain rule. we can list those in our head, rapid fire, but we do not have any rules for how to fall in love, how much to drink, how to pick our pieces up.
when we were 17 we could tell you exactly how a bill becomes a law and how often venus is visible to the naked eye, and which surveys to trust, but we could not tell you how to balance a checkbook or talk to a depressed friend or fall out of love with someone or in love with someone else.
when we were 13 we could name exactly how and why blood gets oxygen and how it gets to our heart, but we could not explain why our hearts and breathing both stopped when we saw each other.
when we were 14 we could describe the overarching theme of social inequalities within "to kill a mockingbird", but we did not care that our cafeteria was seperated into cool and not cool by pillar.
when we were 15 we could write pages and pages about the way trade off the coast of India evolved and was affected by monsoon seasons, but when a storm knocked the power out for two weeks, we found ourselves with nothing to do, no way to connect.
when we were 16 we knew every rule in calculus: exponential, power, logarithm, the product rule, the chain rule. we can list those in our head, rapid fire, but we do not have any rules for how to fall in love, how much to drink, how to pick our pieces up.
when we were 17 we could tell you exactly how a bill becomes a law and how often venus is visible to the naked eye, and which surveys to trust, but we could not tell you how to balance a checkbook or talk to a depressed friend or fall out of love with someone or in love with someone else.
(( public school by claire luisa
))
somewhere
there is a woman in china holding a
black umbrella so she
won't tast the salt of the rain when
the sky begins to weep
there is a 17 year old girl who smells
like pomegranates and has summer air
tight on her naked skin, wrapping
around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who
won't make it past tomorrow
there is a young man, who buys yellow
flowers for the woman
in apartment 84b, who learned braille
when he realized she
couldn't read his poetry about her
white neck and mint eyes
there are people watching films,
making love for the first time,
opening mail with the
heading of 'i miss you', cooking
noodles with
organic spices aand red sauces, buying
lemon detergent,
ignoring 'do not smoke' signs,
painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses,
chewing
the words 'i love you' over and over
again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten
birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine
off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the
teleophone,
reading this poem
somewhere
someone is thinking
i'm alone
somewhere
someone finally understands
they never really
were
there is a woman in china holding a
black umbrella so she
won't tast the salt of the rain when
the sky begins to weep
there is a 17 year old girl who smells
like pomegranates and has summer air
tight on her naked skin, wrapping
around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who
won't make it past tomorrow
there is a young man, who buys yellow
flowers for the woman
in apartment 84b, who learned braille
when he realized she
couldn't read his poetry about her
white neck and mint eyes
there are people watching films,
making love for the first time,
opening mail with the
heading of 'i miss you', cooking
noodles with
organic spices aand red sauces, buying
lemon detergent,
ignoring 'do not smoke' signs,
painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses,
chewing
the words 'i love you' over and over
again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten
birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine
off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the
teleophone,
reading this poem
somewhere
someone is thinking
i'm alone
somewhere
someone finally understands
they never really
were
(( poems from my uncles graves
))
It's Monday. I'm going home at
6pm and a middle aged man and a teenage boy are the only people
left on the bus with me. I consider the fact that because the
driver is also a man I am he only person left on the bus with the
correct genetic makeup for boobs. I'm automatically scared,
scared because of my own anatomy. I wonder how old I was when I
realized that my own body was going to be the cause of the
constant anxiety and fear I feel in situations like this. I get
off at the last stop and the older man smiles at me while
following me up the street. His smile drips, drips, drips and my
heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. He turns off down another
road, but I run the rest of the way home.
Not all men.
I’m at home on a Tuesday, beginning to plan the travels I want to go on next year. I dream of wandering the streets and meeting strangers. I just can’t wait to escape the city I’ve lived in for 17 long years. But… my mum is hesitant. She’s forever worried about the danger that being a young girl traveling alone can bring. I’ll be alone and she’s scared. Surely I’m invincible. I feel invincible. But I know, I know this danger is real and I can’t help but think to myself, if I feel unsafe in my own city, how am i going to feel in a strange place with strange men who don’t speak the same language as me? If I was my brother planning this, I would probably just be wondering if European girls are going to be hot.
Not all men.
Wednesday is a beautiful sunny day but I’ve always been told that I don’t have a “nice enough body” to wear a bikini on the beach. Ever since I was 6 years old I’ve thought that having tummy fat was ugly. That skin that doesn’t have a perfectly golden glow is undesirable. I amble to a clear patch of sand in my one piece and I can feel pairs of eyes latching onto me. Hairy men in speedos who I don’t look twice at eat into my body with their stares. I’m a piece of meat. I am a piece of meat? I am here for their amusement. Please don’t let me be eaten alive.
Not all men.
Thursday night two friends and I are walking to our god damn school dance when we hear “Jesus look at you! You sl.uts heading to a pole?” These words snarl out of the mouth of a respectably dressed man and we stop in horror. Shivers roll up my back in fear. It’s dark. We are alone. What. Do. We. Do??? One of us pulls the finger back. I can never be sure how quickly a sexist man can get angry so we walk quickly away. We’re angry, so so angry. But also so… deflated. I wonder if we deserve this shame.
Not all men.
Sitting on the internet, Friday night and scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed:
"Haha, good job at the game today bro. You R.APED them!"
"Damn with t.its like that, you're asking for it :P"
Another sexist comment.
Another sexist comment.
Another sexist comment.
I’m shrinking and shrinking and shrinking and I want to CRY because these boys don’t realize how small they make me feel with just pressing a few keys. I see these boys on the streets, I talk to these boys, I laugh with these boys. Dear GOD, dear GOD i hope these boys don’t think actions speak louder than words…
Not all men.
Three rules that have been drilled into me since I was young run through my mind at one 1:30 on a Satur...Sunday morning.
-Don't ever talk to strange men
-Don't ever be alone at night in a strange place
-Don't ever get into a car with a stranger
I break all 3 of these laws as I pull open the taxi door. Making light conversation with the driver, he doesn’t see my sweaty hand clutching the small pocket knife I keep hidden on me at all times. He doesn’t even realize the fear I feel at his mere presence. He cannot comprehend it, he never will. How easy would this 15 minute car ride be if I was born a boy?
Not all men.
It comes to Sunday, another snoozy, sleepy, Sunday and someone has the AUDACITY to tell me not all men are r.apists. I say nothing.
I'm a 17 year old girl.
When I am walking alone in the dark, it's all men.
When I am in a car with a man I don't know well, it's all men.
When men drunkenly leer at me in the sreets, it's all men.
When a boy won't leave me alone a a party, it's all men.
Not all men are r.apists. But for a young girl like me? Every one of them has the potential to be.
Not.
All.
Men.
Not all men.
I’m at home on a Tuesday, beginning to plan the travels I want to go on next year. I dream of wandering the streets and meeting strangers. I just can’t wait to escape the city I’ve lived in for 17 long years. But… my mum is hesitant. She’s forever worried about the danger that being a young girl traveling alone can bring. I’ll be alone and she’s scared. Surely I’m invincible. I feel invincible. But I know, I know this danger is real and I can’t help but think to myself, if I feel unsafe in my own city, how am i going to feel in a strange place with strange men who don’t speak the same language as me? If I was my brother planning this, I would probably just be wondering if European girls are going to be hot.
Not all men.
Wednesday is a beautiful sunny day but I’ve always been told that I don’t have a “nice enough body” to wear a bikini on the beach. Ever since I was 6 years old I’ve thought that having tummy fat was ugly. That skin that doesn’t have a perfectly golden glow is undesirable. I amble to a clear patch of sand in my one piece and I can feel pairs of eyes latching onto me. Hairy men in speedos who I don’t look twice at eat into my body with their stares. I’m a piece of meat. I am a piece of meat? I am here for their amusement. Please don’t let me be eaten alive.
Not all men.
Thursday night two friends and I are walking to our god damn school dance when we hear “Jesus look at you! You sl.uts heading to a pole?” These words snarl out of the mouth of a respectably dressed man and we stop in horror. Shivers roll up my back in fear. It’s dark. We are alone. What. Do. We. Do??? One of us pulls the finger back. I can never be sure how quickly a sexist man can get angry so we walk quickly away. We’re angry, so so angry. But also so… deflated. I wonder if we deserve this shame.
Not all men.
Sitting on the internet, Friday night and scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed:
"Haha, good job at the game today bro. You R.APED them!"
"Damn with t.its like that, you're asking for it :P"
Another sexist comment.
Another sexist comment.
Another sexist comment.
I’m shrinking and shrinking and shrinking and I want to CRY because these boys don’t realize how small they make me feel with just pressing a few keys. I see these boys on the streets, I talk to these boys, I laugh with these boys. Dear GOD, dear GOD i hope these boys don’t think actions speak louder than words…
Not all men.
Three rules that have been drilled into me since I was young run through my mind at one 1:30 on a Satur...Sunday morning.
-Don't ever talk to strange men
-Don't ever be alone at night in a strange place
-Don't ever get into a car with a stranger
I break all 3 of these laws as I pull open the taxi door. Making light conversation with the driver, he doesn’t see my sweaty hand clutching the small pocket knife I keep hidden on me at all times. He doesn’t even realize the fear I feel at his mere presence. He cannot comprehend it, he never will. How easy would this 15 minute car ride be if I was born a boy?
Not all men.
It comes to Sunday, another snoozy, sleepy, Sunday and someone has the AUDACITY to tell me not all men are r.apists. I say nothing.
I'm a 17 year old girl.
When I am walking alone in the dark, it's all men.
When I am in a car with a man I don't know well, it's all men.
When men drunkenly leer at me in the sreets, it's all men.
When a boy won't leave me alone a a party, it's all men.
Not all men are r.apists. But for a young girl like me? Every one of them has the potential to be.
Not.
All.
Men.
Here in America and every single state they have a set of standards for every subject, a collection of lessons that the teacher's required to teach by the end of the term. But the greatest lessons you will ever teach us will not come from your syllabus. The greatest lesssons you will ever teach us you will not even remember.
You never told us what we weren't allowed to say. We just learned how to hold our tongues.
Now somewhere in America there is a child holding a copy of Catcher in the Rye and there is a child holding a gun. But only one of these things have been banned by their state government and, it's not the one that can rip through flesh, it's the one that says "F You" on more pages than one.
Because we must control what people say. how they think. And if they want to become the overseer of their own selves then we'll show them a real one.
And somewhere in America there is a child sitting at his mother's computer reding the home page of the KKK's website and that's open to the public. But that child will never read To Kill a Mockingbird because his school has banned it for it's use of the n-word.
Maya Angelou is prohibited because we're not allowed to talk about rápe in school. We are taught that just because something happens doesn't mean we are to talk about it.
They build us brand new shopping malls so we'll forget where we're really standing -- on the bones of the Hispanics, on the bones of the slaves, on the bones of the Native Americans, on the bones of those who fought just to speak.
Transcontinental railroads to Japanese internment camps. There are things missing from our history books. But we were taught that it is better to be silent than to make them uncomfortable.
Somewhere in America private school girls search for hours through boutiques trying to find the prom dress of their dreams while kids on the south side spend hours searching through the lost and found 'cause winter's coming soon and that's the only jacket they have.
Kids are late to class for working the midnight shift. They give awards for best attendance but not for keeping your family off the streets.
These kids will call your music ghetto. They will tell you you don't talk right. Then they'll get in the backseat of a car with all their friends singing how they're "'bout that life" and "we can't stop".
Somewhere in America schools are promoting self confidence while they whip out their scales and shout out your body fat percentage in class. Where the heftier girls are hiding away and the slim fit beauties can't help but giggle with pride.
The preppy kids go thrift shopping beause they think it sounds fun. But we go 'cause that's all we've got money for 'cause mama works for the city; mama only gets paid once a month.
Somewhere in America a girl is getting felt up by a grown man on a subway. She's still in ther school uniform and that's part of the appeal. It's hard to run in knee socks and Mary Janes and all her male teachers know it, too.
Coaches cover up star players ráping freshmen after the dance. Women are killed for rejecting a date but God forbid I bring my girlfriend to prom.
A girl is blackout drunk at the after party. Take a picture before her wounds waker her. How many pixels is your sanity worth?
What's a 4.0 to a cold jury?
What'd you learn in class today? Don't talk loud, don't speak loud, keep your hands to yourself, keep your head down. Keep your eyes on your own paper. If you don't know the answer fill in C.
Always wear earbuds when you ride the bus alone. If you think that someone's following you pretend you're on the phone.
A teacher never fails. Only you do.
Every state in America.
The greatest lessons are the ones you don't remember learning.
Belissa Escobedo
Rhiannon McGavin
Zariya Allen
Rhiannon McGavin
Zariya Allen
Explaining my depression to my mother: a conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter. Ond day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear. The next it's the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days "the dark days". Mom says, "Try lighting candles". When I see a candle I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, the sparks of a memory younger than noon, I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides, mom, I'm not afraid of the dark. Perhaps that's part of the problem.
Mom says, "I thought the problem was that you can't get out of bed." I can't. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, "Where did anxiety come from?" Anxiety is the cousin from out of town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party only I am a party I don't want to be at.
Mom says, "Why don't you try going to actual parties? See your friends?" Sure, I make plans. I make plans, but I don't want to go. I make plans because I should want to go, I know sometimes I would have wanted to go, it's just it's not that much fun having fun when you don't want to have fun, mom.
You see, mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms, dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stovelight. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, "Try counting sheep" but my mind can only count reasons to stay awake so I go for walks. But my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells remind me tha tI am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, "Happy is a decision". But my happiness is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No! I am afraid of living!
Mom, I am lonely! I think I learned how, when dad left, how to turn the angry into lonely, the lonely into busy. So when I tell you I've been super busy lately I mean I've been falling asleep watching SportsCenter on the couch to avoid going confronting the empty side of my bed but my depression always drags my back to my bed until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, my mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves, the hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat. But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truely know everwhere I have been.
Mom still doesn't understand.
Mom, can't you see? That neither can I.
Sabrina Benaim
When the apocalypse comes, Jesus asks you to dinner. Jesus is the son of your mother’s best friend; naturally, you cannot say no. He’s five minutes late in picking you up, bites his thumb in supplication, and you want to press him against the leather seats of Jesus’ dad’s Cadillac. You’ve been on worse dates. The company’s decent, the séx phenomenal, except there is no séx and you’re left wondering why you thought there would be. This is not how you pictured the end of the world. Somewhere, a door slams. Your neighbors are filing for divorce. Jesus walks you to your door with his hand above your waist. He kisses you and time unravels, a ball of yarn torn between opposing knitting needles. Crabapples. Jesus tastes like crabapples and the final stanza of “Amazing Grace.” God calls, asks Jesus when he’ll be home. The sky is orange. At the end of your mother’s driveway, your mother’s best friend’s son’s car radio narrates the coming of the savior: This is Delilah. Avert thy mortal eyes.
Brianna Albers, "Delilah"
Complete in blue or black ink. Blood will count as extra credit. Only lies told through a clenched jaw will be graded. You have until the end of Tuesday’s thunderstorm to complete.
1. How do you bring yourself back from the dead?
A) Swallow the heart of the last person you thought she loved.
B) Take the yellow pill off her tongue.
C) Douse yourself in kerosene. Give her the match.
D) Her hands.
2. Use 5 in a sentence to describe the destruction of her mouth:
Euphoria / Appetite / Absolution / Gossamer / Palpitation / Wretched / Celestial / Bloodthirsty
3. If on the 24th of November, she says your name for the first time with her teeth on your throat and you are on your 9th cigarette, how many more will you have to smoke before you can breathe again?
Answer in the form of heartbeats per minute.
4. True or false:
i. The night tastes different now that you have tasted her mouth.
ii. She has the combination to your nightmares.
iii. A girl with eyes like those can be trusted.
iv. Her favorite song sounds a lot like how she owns you.
v. This is a good idea.
vi. She wants to stop the bleeding.
vii. She opened the wound in the first place.
5. Complete the sentence: She said that you are-
A) That feeling you get when summer fades to autumn and the world slows down just enough to catch a glimpse of everything that’s been promised to you.
B) Hers.
--“POP QUIZ POETY” by kat
myers and e.m.