Anonymous asked: why don't you like virginia woolf? just curious
she just seems to kind of ignore that the working class exist at all. looking at where she grew up - bloomsbury, a central borough of london, effectively where all the upper class live(d), i suppose it makes sense that she doesn’t mention them very much. in one particular essay of hers i read, she sort of mentioned the working class as something efficient and perfect, and admired them very much for being USEFUL, but i really dislike that approach to people. also i think her style is pretty convoluted a lot of the time, and i find that difficult to read. i respect that she’s an incredibly important contributor to modern literature, and that is spectacular, but i just can’t really get into her.
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it takes real guts to let yourself love.
everyone kicks up a big song and dance every summer
and there’s confetti, and drive-in movies
and acoustic songs with big finishes.
it takes real guts to let yourself love,
to stay and watch the leaves pile up around you -
to watch your feet freeze,
to smile with both sides of your mouth.
it’s easy to compare love to seasons,
but will you be brave
and stay until next year?
— ishani jasmin
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if you can’t save yourself,
it is not because
you are not worth saving.
you’ve let those weeds root
just a little too deep
under your skin
and plucking them out
than the best pair of tweezers
your hourly wage can buy.
when your forearms aren’t strong enough,
remember that superheroes
have their off days, and you
are no exception.
if you can’t save yourself today,
someone will hold you up
and frogmarch you through your daily routine
from wiping the sleep out of your eyes when you wake up
to switching off the light at four am
to maybe try and sleep a little before work
until you can get by without them.
you will be able to save yourself eventually,
even if it’s baby steps from island to island.
self-salvation is something to aspire to
first thing in the morning hunched over your bowl of cereal,
because you are worth saving at sunrise,
and you are worth saving at dusk.
— ishani jasmin
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within the walls of this establishment
are hundreds of examples of
the society-dubbed ‘teen angst’
that has already taken me by the horns
and flung me out the other side.
i’m nothing but pleased
that i got through this early.
i am never going to have to worry
about who to go home with again.
i am never going to have to twirl my hair
around my finger, or tilt my head to one side
or laugh at shitty jokes
just to prolong my false sense of self esteem
for one more night.
never again am i going to have to say,
‘eh, okay, whatever, i guess.’
before finding myself caught
in a stranger’s limbs in some dark corner,
or tangled up in the morning light
of somebody else’s window.
i’ll never have to pass off
something as serious as
not recognising the person i wake up to
with one blasé eyebrow raised.
was that initial shock in my stomach
really something i grew used to?
if it comes back, it’ll be solid,
and it’ll floor me,
because it’s gone now.
now i only wake up to familiar arms
and a distant memory.
you are not obligated to live out
a lifestyle that you can’t hold up
without downing a glass of wine every night
lest you remember that crushing guilt in your stomach.
if heartache is a symptom of the company you keep,
you are better off away from everything you know.
start with yourself,
— ishani jasmin
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i trail from door to door to door
with the question, ‘how are you?’
painted bright red on my lips.
as each person steps out of their house
i find myself wiping my mouth a little more
and my clenched fists are stained
with other people’s welfares.
my triumphant return to society
sees me trailing a wagon of old books
home from the library
and i am just trying to make sure
that everybody i left alone for a while
is doing okay.
nothing has ever been quite as heavy.
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happy valentines day, kids
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'a handful of me
is worth an ocean of you,’
as you shoved your heart
down my throat whole.
i promise you
i will not choke,
even though this burns
my very insides out.
i have been lucky thus far
to heal at the same rate
as you bore through me.
can you see your heart glowing
through my skin?
— ishani jasmin
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i want to wake up on a saturday morning
to sunshine streaming in through the kitchen window
and sit at the wooden kitchen table
with my legs crossed
and felt tip markings all over my hands.
i want to concentrate so hard
on this thing that i cannot bring myself to call art
that my tongue sticks out
and glints a sharp pink against the hue of my skin in the light.
sometimes i think i miss being a child,
but then i imagine you waking up a little after me
coming downstairs for a cup of coffee
and catching sight of me with unkempt curls defying gravity
and smiling to yourself over the kettle’s gentle hum.
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