solid gold, fourteen carat, barely burnished despite twenty years of hard molling. but beneath it, i knew, beneath that gold & stardust, she was all grit and sharp teeth gnashing, head twisting, talons out, tearing flesh.

make me queen

private, selective, independent blair waldorf.

or i'll make you bleed

you have to decide who you are, little girl, she told me once. once you know that, everyone else will too.

navigation

— Annie McQuade, from “When He Asks Me ‘What That Mouth Do?’,” published in Vagabond City
(via lifeinpoetry) —

this mouth will destroy you the moment you mistake it for something soft, / for something that is yours.

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