The Subtle Revolution

Linguo dead? Linguo is dead.

9 notes

your house always
smelled like tunafish
and vitamins

i remember

i remember
that time when
i was little
and you told
me you had hazel
eyes and,
giggling, i
said: “my gramma
has weasel eyes!”

i remember
all those times
i did not feel safe.

but you will
never know about

you will never
know about the
cold cement floor
pressing into my littlegirl back
spiderwebs in my
hair pink dress
pulled off and
gagging me so
i can’t scream

your son’s
big hands
making me dead

i will not tell you.

it would break your
your sweet grandma
your guilty catholic

you’d blame yourself
for your son
turning out such
a sicko.

but, esther,
it was not your

nothing in you
could have caused

you were always,
will always be:
“jess, go play
on the swingset,
s. will push you,”
“jess, what color
plate do you like best?”
you were always,
will always be:
the grandmother
who gives me
her scarves from
the fifties,
gives me another
heaped helping
of buttery mashed
makes me a
cup of

Jessie Lynn McMains (Rust Belt Jessie), “for Polly Esther” (2004)

Though I once printed this in my zine, this is really difficult for me to share, y’all. I stopped talking/writing about/sharing my traumas for a long time, and it’s hard to get back into the practice. So be gentle, please.

(via rustbeltjessie)

6 notes

Like a punch in the nose, being in love
blurs your vision with stars -
fractured blobs of green, blue, and red.
You can taste it, bitter on your lips,
like you’re drinking from a mystery bottle
and suddenly, you’re standing in a field.

Everything in your field
of vision is preposterously lovely,
distorted by a rose-colored bottle.
City lights blinking like friendly stars,
couples holding hands, locking lips;
every flowery poem you’ve ever read.

You remember? That dress she wore was red.
Just like her blood when you fucked her in a field.
And those words that escaped your lips -
coming inside her was just like love.
So hard she saw stars.
And then that broken bottle…

You remember? He handed you a bottle,
and the wine was oh, so sweet & red,
and his eyes were twin green stars.
When he asked you to lay down in that field,
you thought This Must Be Love,
and you didn’t care where he put his lips.

Every night now, she cradles a bottle,
places that cold glass cask between her lips,
trying to forget she was ever in love.
Other distractions: the self-help books she’s read,
written by those “experts in their fields;”
and all the sex she’s had with random rock stars.

Star light. Star bright. First star
I see tonight - I wish for a new pair of lips
to kiss in the middle of a cornfield,
so I won’t need that damn bottle.
Maybe I will dye my hair red.
Maybe I will swear off love.

She’s beginning to think that love isn’t in her stars,
though she still smears bright red lipstick on her lips,
wears perfume from a bottle, goes out, and plays the field.
Jessie Lynn McMains (Rust Belt Jessie), “Love & Stars” (2004)

(Source: rustbeltjessie)