Install Theme

Delicious Interludes





bite me, she said
i am both my cruelties
and my kindness and you
cannot separate me
we need to break the skin
anything else is just masturbation
i will be here for you
i will look at you, and see you
you deserve to be seen
i see your kindness
and your cruelty; you are all
a person can be, wrecked
and holy i love you i love you
i can accept or i can destroy this
do not let me go, cruel and kind
we are bitten, we are tied

Careful what you wish for 2.0

But if being loved by a writer is difficult, having a writer fall out of love with you is far worse.

When you inevitably betray a writer’s fantasy of you, they will turn on you like a viper. You won’t have time to react — one push off that pedestal and you’ll fall with an ego-crushing thud.

As quickly as your castle was built by their words, it burns to the ground. Your shadows, your shame, your shared vulnerability is splashed liberally on the page for all to see. Your character — once painted ethereal and pure — is now a twisted demon of a thing. Its creator will not soften their countenance toward you; a writer enraged is unreachable. Hold tight, you must weather the storm.

Yet a writer’s scorn is not the most terrible thing you will suffer. The most terrible of all, is the nuclear winter. The silent, sickening aftermath of a writer’s obsession with you. When all the words have dried up, forever.

After everything; the wild abandon of fantasy, the loving comfort, the dramas, the viper’s bite and the creative spite, the next part is what will really kill you. There is far more suffering in the frigid waters of indifference than anywhere else.

Yes, the very worst thing of all is when your writer stops writing about you.



I love you like an astronomer loves the stars. He watches them, with a late night cup of coffee and a note book. He writes down all his findings and he guards his work jealously. He reads what others have accomplished, he studies and researches. He reads every word intently. He listens when they speak to him. He wakes up in the morning and counts down the hours until he gets to see them again, those burning effigies that make him ache for more.

He never wears a space suit. He never lets his feet get off the ground. His love is all his sadness. He knows that no matter how badly he wished it, the technology doesn’t even exist to take him out to the farthest reaches. His fingertips might not be able to touch, but his heart exists out there in the blackness, in the countless light years between the Earth and the farthest spirals of the galaxy. I love you like this man loves the setting sun, waiting for the night to remove the sheath the bright and blinding sun has shadowed him with.

He stands in a field with his arms to the sky, with no streetlights for a hundred kilometres. I love you like this man who obsesses over something he can never have, I love you like this man loves the highest peaks on a clear night.

He wonders how something so far away could shine so much light on him.

“ I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience. ”

—     Meryl Streep

Loose Woman


They say I’m a beast.
And feast on it. When all along
I thought that’s what a woman was.

They say I’m a bitch.
Or witch. I’ve claimed
the same and never winced.

They say I’m a macha, hell on wheels,
viva-la-vulva, fire and brimstone,
man-hating, devastating,
boogey-woman lesbian.
Not necessarily,
but I like the compliment.

The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.

Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I’m in.

I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.

I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my little house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.

I live like so.
Heart as sail, ballast, rudder, bow.
Rowdy. Indulgent to excess.
My sin and success–
I think of me to gluttony.

By all accounts I am
a danger to society.
I’m Pancha Villa.
I break laws,
upset the natural order,
anguish the Pope and make fathers cry.
I am beyond the jaw of law.
I’m la desperada, most-wanted public enemy.
My happy picture grinning from the wall.

I strike terror among the men.
I can’t be bothered what they think.
¡Que se vayan a la ching chang chong!
For this, the cross, the calvary.
In other words, I’m anarchy.

I’m an aim-well,
loose woman.
Beware, honey.

I’m Bitch. Beast. Macha.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
I break things.

Sandra Cisneros

Stop having sex with friends slut!

Asked by Anonymous

This is a writing blog — not a diary — you impolite, slut-shaming fucknuckle.

More to the point, it is MY writing blog. I will write about whatever I wish, and in my personal life I will have sex with whomever I choose.

If a woman’s independence and autonomy in her own sexuality so offends your misogynistic sensibilities, please do give the unfollow button a timely spank.

Best of luck, I’ll let you show yourself out.

Sex is messy

When I think about it, would I go back in time and not sleep with you to save the friendship? Maybe. But without the sex, intimacy would not have shaped our friendship into what it became — something solid and true.

So then, the sex begot the friendship.

It also ruined it too.

© 2012–2014 Delicious Interludes | Theme Encore Created by Jen Yuan