unF-CKINGcensored

Anonymous asked: You're my favorite writer, which I know is a bold statement to make but you're right up there with Jane Austen and Sylvia Plath. My god I can't tell you how many times I've read your poems, especially chambers, god I can near recite it now. Keep writing and writing and writing because one day I hope to be reading your poems out of a book you've written and not out of my journal where I've copied them down.

hey, I’m crying now okay you can stop making my heart explode into tiny little butterflies that fly down into my stomach now okay?

ahhh. I don’t even know how to describe to you what reading this did to me. It is quite literally a dream come true. I told my friend oncethat I think I was Sylvia Plath in a past life, because I love her so much, (on days I am particularly suicidal I break out my “Bell Jar” Tee Shirt and threaten to stick my head in the oven, too) and then took it back because it sounded so narcissistic. But he said no- if I believed I had a connection like that with someone to embrace it. Last night I was thinking after I read this that maybe we aren’t born with our past lives, but that we earn them as we live this life. Just as we gain our experiences as needed to succeed in this lifetime, maybe we take on entire other past finished ones as needed to evolve into our fates.

I am so glad you love Chambers so much- it was a quickwrite that I truly did not expect to have such an impact as it seems to have had. Since I was a little girl I have been a writer, and to be someone’s favourite is incredible. Thank you for your support, thank you for your devotion and loyalty and positivity toward my innermost thoughts brought to life. To write poetry is to turn one’s most vital organs and insides to ink. To publish or share that poetry is to splash that ink across billboards. When asked why I do not have a book out yet, it is simply because I do not feel ready for it yet. When it is time, I will know, and you will be the first to know as well. I promise that.

Endless love,

Allison

Anonymous asked: I check you blog every freaking day. I'm missing you. I hope you're okay. Xoxo

Hi there!
Thank you so much for checking up on me:)
I am doing really, really well; I am just the busiest I’ve ever been! I will try to be posting again soon!

You’re too sweet xoxoxoxooxoxoxoxooxoxoxooxxxxx

I was so at peace this morning with cutting off my adrenaline flow and finally letting go.

There is a sadness inside of me that scientists are forever trying to fill by filling subscriptions.

Sylvia Plath would eloquently write of her untreatable at the time bipolar disorder.

Maybe she was luckier than I.

See, when there are solutions for resetting your internal compass to point due North, they all expect you to do it.

But nobody ever discovered a new path by following the previous cartographer’s map.

There is a swelling, pinching, pulling each moment asking me to beautifully fade. Cut here. Drown there.

Dear Cosmo, is swallowing still sexy when its a lethal dose?

I am close.

I have done this before. I have escaped by cutting the split ends of my soul off, expecting healthier roots. But I am not so photosynthetic. I can not continue to create what I consume. It is killing me.

My best friend’s brother in law saw my instagram and asked if I was as promiscuous as it made me seem. She laughed, “who Allison? G-d, she’s practically a virgin”

I don’t share my physical energy the way I am comfortable sharing my physical imagery. I forget people see me sometimes. I forget I’m not invisible. That is so easy when you spend your days lately with more erasers and backspace buttons than ink.

I can not sculpt the lover out of me though I’ve long since run from the kiln. No longer can I remove the excess clay without cracking. I am afraid of being added to further.

I can count love on my fingers: one two three four five
I can count the love I’ve had on my fingers: one two three four five

I intertwine my love digits sometimes and leave fingerprint evidence of my innocence all over my crime scene body.

I still have to use my fingers to count when adding and subtracting the gigantic equations of love I’ve known:
Five four three two one
Look ma, no hands.

oh how femme fatale of me

Anonymous asked: Franz von Stuck - the sin 1893

interesting….

meow

babe babe babe
babe babe babe
babe babe babe 

baby baby baby
baby baby baby
baby baby baby

darling darling darling
darling darling darling
darling darling love

forever forever
forever forever
forever forever
forever

mouth the girl of madness
she is no daughter of the planets here

sip her little galaxy
(none of this belongs to me)

bite the hand that got you drunk
become the astrology of
kill, kill, kill

stretch your muscles
touch your toes
bend over backwards
bend your 
will

“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.” 
― Sylvia Plath

For my sister, to whom I am endlessly sorry.

When the world comes crashing at your 
adolescent door
(as it will, it always does)
demanding your heart and a hand to hold

do not give it everything you’ve ever studied
do not turn your tantrums into textbooks
do not give it an index on how to take you down
or a glossary of ways in which a girl like you could drown.

when the world comes
trickling slowly into your first red cup
and you let rivers send palpitations through 
places you didn’t think existed on the map
do not let a standard procedure or GPS signal
tell you where you are

do it the old fashioned way
do fold into yourself like clean laundry
just done and undone
do not turn off the lights just yet

the day your baby cradle hips
first dare you to fill them with unconditional love
the day you take your first sip of coffee, beer
and actually like the flavour
hold yourself screaming before the aftertaste goes away

when the world slips steadily into your room at night
with fingers like suitcase latches
do not latch on 
to the idea of running away
find yourself a sister in a diary under your mattress
and write to the one who left small and screaming
like the day she was born
and read and read and read 
all the uncool classics
redone in paperback covers that you can’t properly judge a book by
even when they keep telling you how 
fucking pretty
you’ve gotten

don’t ever fall in love with small wars
don’t ever fall in love over small words
don’t take these battles lightly
brush your hair, brush your teeth,
but do not go back to sleep

an oven that is hot enough to cook
is hot enough to burn
keep yourself curled in sheets of flames
when you’ve written enough poems
about rib cages and lipstick
find the first person willing to call you baby
and bite the iron from their lips

split yourself open like the seasons
and realise you are Persephone’s sister
hold her not accountable for the coldness she reverts to
she is both the bright and the darkness
and an etching of past lives

there will be novels written about you,
I promise,
by the time you are the age I was when 
your eyes were my moon goddesses
you evolved of light
and the pull of gravity

there are days, though,
Sister,
that I will need you to push me
I will not prove you with theorems
or ask why the apple fell at all in the first place
I will not hold you responsible for the waves
or ask why North must attract South
when I am here waiting in the East chamber of my own heart
beating myself up inside

when the world chimes outside of you despite skyless wind
hunger for only serotonin
and breath
and get your high off of laying low
until the lunar eclipse inside of you
has made you so dark
that you must search for the only type of suicide
that will still feed your appetite for life:
and write.

when the world comes knocking at your door
do not open the curtains 
on the home you’ve built
like I did

when the world comes knocking at your door,
lock it
then
crawl slowly out to meet it