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a collection of writings by Casey Ashman

March 28th
5:11 pm

Your beauty is
askewed by what feels like the
biggest ocean in this world.
Distant in more than one sense of the word.
You shoot me with your one-word arrows
they go right through my chest.
Clean, cut, handsome.
And as I count the holes in me,
wishing you’d just touch them,
I find out where I belong.
Pat Benetar said once that Love
is a battlefield.
Maybe she forgot to also explain
how we reenact a different World War
every night—
you, crawling into bed with me.
And my legs ache like I’ve been
standing for 23 years,
but you never came to bed.
Let Germany rejoice.
We’ve avoided a catastrophe.

March 28th
5:09 pm

i’ve been meaning to ask you all sorts of things.
things about lava lamps,
navigational skills, patience, ice cream.
mythology. museums. musicals.
i lay awake at night
wanting for you to be around to answer.
to hear me say, half-dreaming,
“i love you. i love you. i love you.
i think about you before i sleep.”

March 24th
3:26 pm

all i want in this life
is to wake up in the middle of the night
to find myself wrapped around you—
my bruised kneecaps against
the perfect hinge of your legs,
my chest cradling the brick in the small of your back—
and make sleepy love.
i want to wake up in the midst of a blizzard,
4 a.m coming down,
and ask you (softly) if you are awake
and receive only kisses
as an answer.
i wrote this for you.

March 24th
1:43 pm

would you like to sleep here
i miss you
can you come to my house three months from now
and help me rearrange my furniture
so i dont get terrified of everything
i like the way you reject me all the time
i like when you ignore me
it confirms the preconceived notion i have
that i am not important
thank you for your time
your 3 a.m. friend

March 24th
1:23 pm

i snap my hairtie against my wrist.

and stare at the redness. 

this doesn’t mean a lot to me.

i like when my skin looks paper thin,
like i could rip it open
with a whisper.

i run my fingers over the red welts

and think, carefully

“I feel nothing.

the brain inside my skull could fall out

26 seconds from now

& it would feel like a million years ago.”

and when i scratch my pen on the paper

it sounds like helicopters.

i lay my head on the carpet and 

push my face into the ground,

clench and unclench my fists 6 times,

and still feel nothing.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i realize that before i was a girl,

i was a ghost.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i have never known how to be near
to anything 
that isn’t burning.

i snap my hairtie against my wrist.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i feel nothing.

March 10th
12:25 pm

the back of my neck is a thorn

a poem

a poem


poem by keegan crawford in everyday genius



i wanna lie on a trampoline in the summer with you
this seems more romantic than most things
there will be fireflies in the bushes
and we will kiss a little
and feel good about the bouncy surface
beneath us

i wasn’t feeling sad when i started writing this
but now for some reason i am

(Source: liefplus)

oops. buzzed my hair.

oops. buzzed my hair.