My Intangible World



You weren’t born a fighter. I know this. I also know you’ve lived this last year as if clawing your way out of a grave. I guess it must be all that hostile dirt. Where’s you learn to fight like that? Listen to me; the war is over, you can lay down your gun. You have thirty two sharpened teeth, but two chapped lips that have forgotten how it feels to say “I love.”



This is the fever dream
the burning in my throat
the rash
the infection
the scab that would heal if I could stop picking
This is desire
a sweet sickness
a wound festering under the skin
a viral infection
multiplying inside me
this always wanting
this cancer of the blood
have you ever thought so hard
about hospitals?

We are all primary numbers divisible only by ourselves.
- Jean Guitton (via showslow)


Bianca Phipps - “Almosts” (CUPSI 2014)

"Words can only help you if you speak them. I never told you that I loved you. You never told me you were dying."

Performing for the University of Northern Colorado at the 2014 College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational.


I saw a man with sad eyes on the bus today
and I did not think of you.

I did not think of you, I thought of everything but you. You were like a blank space in my mind, a cutout in the shape of your silhouette. You see, last year for my birthday, I made 12 new friends, and all of them were voices in my head, curling up from the bloody raw mess of my stomach, but you – I met you the day after and, oh, when I saw you, the voices stopped. For a few seconds, there was blissful silence, until you spoke and they all started up again, multiplied by ten, a hundred and twenty voices shouting at me not to kiss you. But I do anyway, and it’s beautiful.

A few weeks in, we get serious, and I meet your mother. I know she doesn’t like how the words ricochet in my head, she thinks I cannot love you with my sickness. I say she reminds me of Delilah, and when she asks who that is, I say it’s the voice that comes at me like a car crash and tells me not to eat. That night, we have sad sex, and there’s Delilah in my mind, saying I should not lay my lips on you. But I do anyway, and it’s beautiful.

It’s when we’ve been living together, one month exactly, that the voice that sounds almost like yours starts whispering that I should jump out our second-story apartment window, and I screamed and smashed all the dishes in the kitchen. I fucking shouted your name and you were crying and asking if I hated you now and no, God, God I love you, I love you so much my ribs break with the weight of it. You said you couldn’t tell who was talking anymore, so I wrote it on the wall, I feel your name in my bones. But your bags are already packed by the time the paint dries, and your mother is calling with her Delilah voice, saying she told you so. I’ve got porcelain in my hair the last time you kiss me.

And it’s not beautiful anymore.

- Schizophrenia | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

The concern for overly exposed young bodies may be well-intentioned. With society fetishizing girls at younger and younger ages, girls are instructed to self-objectify and see themselves as sexual objects, something to be looked at. A laundry list of problems can come from obsessing over one’s appearance: eating disorders, depression, low self-worth. Who wouldn’t want to spare her daughter from these struggles?

But these dress codes fall short of being legitimately helpful. What we fail to consider when enforcing restrictions on skirt-length and the tightness of pants is the girls themselves—not just their clothes, but their thoughts, emotions, budding sexuality and self-image.

Instead, these restrictions are executed with distracted boys in mind, casting girls as inherent sexual threats needing to be tamed. Dress restrictions in schools contribute to the very problem they aim to solve: the objectification of young girls. When you tell a girl what to wear (or force her to cover up with an oversized T-shirt), you control her body. When you control a girl’s body—even if it is ostensibly for her “own good”—you take away her agency. You tell her that her body is not her own.

When you deem a girl’s dress “inappropriate,” you’re also telling her, “Because your body may distract boys, your body is inappropriate. Cover it up.” You recontextualize her body; she now exists through the male gaze.