you are your home

Yes is yes. No is no. Not yes is yes. Not no is Yes.

Add Sexual Consent Education to Wisconsin High School Curriculum

 

“Sexy” clothes means no

“I’m not ready” means no

Unconscious means no

Intoxicated means no

Pushing away means no

Yelling means no

No is no .

Clearly stating yes means yes.

 

Learn sexual consent.

Donate now.

 

Sunday

your love feels like a Sunday

the way my body feels when I stretch in my bed
and the day stretches before me

it feels like the lazy beams of light from my window
filling my room with a holy glow

the tempation to stay in bed so strong and never
wanting to separate from the arms of my duvet

it feels christening as the way I shower
washing all the sins from yesterday
being pure for tomorrow just to get dirty again

the way my heart feels light and comfortable
it wants to stay, it wants to be moved
and show the world what it can do

it feels like the blue light slowly turning to a mirage of red
it’s beautiful to watch it go
knowing I spent my heart the way I knew how
on something as good and classic as a Sunday love

-Hailey Bailey

Just a Kid

I’ve got a cigarette and a half
waiting for me
just in case you ruin my night
and I used to cry about you
I used to cry
but now I just smoke those cigarettes

you say you’ve cut down and use the e instead
when I said
I like guys who smokes cigarettes
but I have a feeling you never liked it
because you’re just a kid
I forget you’re just a kid.

my body is weak
my fingers are shaking holding a stick
I haven’t written a piece and I barely eat
pretty boy, you’re just a kid
how did you learn to say such pretty things?
oh you’re just a kid.

I’ve been running on chocolates and nicotine
I’m seventeen but I stay in
you’re out kissing other girls
I’m sleeping in
I’m running on sugar and nicotine
you’re going out, I’m caving in.

-Hailey Bailey

Had

Stop stop stop

Asking me what I want

When I dont know what you would

I can’t answer for the both of us

When we want two different things

You’d like to go west, I dream of going east

You’re always right and I’m always the one kicked to the streets

Opposites attract like magnets

Like jigsaw pieces

You are sane, I am madness

I cannot make up what you lack

When you are already whole

And I am always one step behind you

You are becoming like who I was

While I am becoming so much better than me

I think you have everything packed in your bag

And I am not what you want nor need

You can’t zip your bag shut and it is sad

That you left me with all that we had.

Face Lift

You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I’m all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask. The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.

They’ve changed all that. Traveling
Nude as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me. He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents. At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don’t know a thing.

For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I’m in the country.
Skin doesn’t have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten. I grow backward. I’m twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband’s sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn’t a cat yet.

Now she’s done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They’ve trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and fingering her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.

-Sylvia Plath

Angel

We came from a bad place

Do not ask me and I wont

Three angels stuck in hell

Too etheral to not glow

We came from a better place

Do not ask me and I wont

How do angels end up in hell?

Get to the top, climb the stairs and you’ll know

They sing lonesome songs

At the top of the tower

And watch the sun rise and fall

They sit beautiful and wilting as a flower

They came as an avalanche of surpassing beauty

Do not ask me and I wont

Angels that just wants to go home

Rested, restless, tired to the bone

We came to this place

Do not ask me and I wont

Their angel skin is cracking

This isn’t hell don’t you know?

This where they leave pretty creatures behind

Forgotten and alone.

-Hailey Bailey

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑