It is what it is.

He comes home smelling of coolant and machine oil,
the fragrance of
whirling parts and steel kissing steel.

I am a stranger to these blue collar
scents, more accustomed to men who smell like
parchment paper and the acid of
developing photos,
men with ink stains and paper cuts for war wounds,
not callouses and metal slivers—
men with purple bruised hearts,
not safety glasses and steel toed boots.

We are whirling kisses and stealing parts
on the kitchen table,
and he isn’t my old love with a poet’s sensibility,
but he does a fine job making poetry with me,
vowels in whispers; a new song
to write in a new language.

I am no longer trapped in the pages of my old love’s story,
an inkblot, a blunder he tried to write over with a new
style in a new life in a new place,

because it was him who thought he was too short
for me to wear heels
him too quiet for me to speak
him who thought that because he was writer
I could not be.

My new love tells me to be as modest or as sultry
as I’d like,
to be as coy or as stupid,
to be as witty or as bland.

And what I want to say to my new love is that
I wear heels now
and what I want to say to my old love is that
I wear heels now.

— Coolant by Poetic-Euphemisms. ©Gabrielle Martin 2013 (via symphony-of-a-survivor)


  1. Go to a party and stay sober. Listen to the way your drunk classmates talk when they don’t plan to remember tonight when they wake up. Never talk about these experiences, just keep them for yourself.
  2. Start driving in one direction on the highway after school one day, pretending like you’re running away. Blast bad pop music and sing along. Stop in the suburbs when your mom calls you to come home, but buy your little brother a cupcake before you turn back around.
  3. Kiss your best friend. It doesn’t matter what sexuality or gender you are or they are. It doesn’t matter if it’s a peck or you escalate to tongue. You’ll laugh about it later, but it will always make you smile just for the memory.
  4. Smoke a cigarette. Let it burn your throat. Cough, loudly.
  5. Take a stand for something you believe in. When half your school laughs at you, take it with pride. Someone agrees, even if they’re too scared to say so.
  6. Make enemies. Make the kind of mistakes that cause your life to implode. Lose everyone and everything to these mistakes. Only when you fall will you find out that you can pick yourself back up.
  7. Sit on someone’s roof and talk for hours. Forget about dinner and tell your origin stories. Let your guard down while the dog barks below. Talk about god. Listen.
  8. Steal Bourbon from your parents’ liquor cabinet and put it in a water bottle beneath your bathroom sink. Spike your tea with it when you think you’ve hit rock bottom. Pour the whole thing down the drain when it’s too strong for you.
  9. Become a stereotype. Buy a record player and combat boots. Wear all black. Dye your hair bright blue and get your ear pierced three times. Don’t care when people laugh at you.
  10. Make wishes at 11:11. Wear your pajamas backwards in the hopes of a snow day. Look for answers at the bottom of a bottle. Pretend writing things on your arms makes you special. Believe in anything. Believe in everything. Open every book and look around every corner. You’ll never look like this or move like this or think like this again. Enjoy it while it lasts or hate every second. But feel. Feel every damn thing.

— Top Ten Things to do Before You Graduate High School by M.S. (via sestinalia)

I love all of these list type things that have been circulating around the last few months, some really good stuff in them

(via tgvjd)