What felt to be permanent
Became temporary,
Became memories.
Every certainty
Washed over me.
Fresh beginnings
Bitter ends
Split ends,
I cut,
Cut people off like
Withered branches.
I will trust in God alone,
If anything left over,
I will trust that the sun
Will burn for the Son
And that the morning bird song
Is always his praise.
Every fleeting love,
Be made as a carpet,
For the love that walked
Upon this earth, my soil.


We call ships ‘she.’ We call our war machines ‘women.’ We compare women to black widows and vipers. And you’re going to tell me it’s not ‘lady-like’ to scream, to take up space, to fight and demand respect and do whatever the hell I want. You’ve looked at nuclear bombs and been so in awe that you could only name them after women. Don’t try to down-play my power.

(via phantasmagoricinvasion)