hit counter
Anonymous: What is this tumblr trend it's like a contest of who can have the whitest blog like soft inbreeding?? why do you reblog pictures of old houses and fetishized young white girls dressed like farm children. Bye

"My mother says, “He’s a nice boy.”
My mother, her wrists in slings, her eyes
black, a wound on legs, says:
“He’s a nice boy.” This is when I realize
that the space between her and I is like
a ripped tendon, like the time between an earthquake
and the aftershocks. She does not see. She
only notices the way he is always hungry,
always searching. Greedy hands. She takes
this as love. I wonder who made her think
the only way to love is to destroy. My mother,
my mother, Jezebel reborn in me, some monster borne

of her rib. Her pit of dogs is a home. A picture. Smiling
children. The children. None know her. Mine
is an ocean of eyes, eyes, all staring at me
and asking: “Why did you let him do this to you?”
(I can only mimic my mother. “He’s a nice boy.”)
She, my mother, picks at my flesh. My baggage.
She says, “You should hope he marries you. You
should hope he gives you fat babies with his eyes.” I

hope my child
will never know his eyes. I hope
my child will never know
his hands. I hope
I have a daughter,

the only person who will have
felt my pain from the inside. I hope
she is born screaming. I hope
she does not give in, does not
smile when the inevitable he
curls up beside her, tries to
cut the tips of her fingers off
to keep under his bed. I hope
she does not weep in silence
but lets sorrow rip itself
from her chest. I hope

that she knows that I have
tried to claw off my own skin
for so long that I cannot
recognize myself anymore. I hope
she knows that men’s eyes
want, and that is a dangerous thing,
and I hope that she knows
the best weapons are your own
two hands. I hope
my daughter hates. I hope she hates.
I hope she spits at the ground. I
hope she is a burning chariot.

My mother’s small shell ears are weak.
“he’s a nice boy,” she says again,
and I know she loves me but I
also know that I come from
a long line of women with melted tongues.
Thrown plates. Thrown fists. 911 calls, hand
over mouth, “just enough to breathe.”
I know that my own history mocks

theirs. A bathroom floor. A jawline. A bruise
so big it swallows me whole. I hope
my daughter never knows the feeling
of cold tile on her cheek. I hope
my daughter comes out screaming,
and I hope she never stops."

Apology of the Century


Ben Waters & Sylvester Ulv photographed by HART+LËSHKINA for Men’s Uno

Canna, Scotland, United Kingdom