diamond kathleen

People often ask me, ‘How does your mind work? It must be a very colorful, different place.’ And, in a way, I find this offensive. Writers aren’t misunderstood psychopaths, meant to be left to their isolated houses in the woods and some paper. I find that, in fact, we are most understanding. To paraphrase Emerson, poets (or authors) say what everyone feels and thinks, but have no words to express it. If you really think about it, those writers far off and aloof from the world capture society so very perfectly. It leaves the reader with an 'Ah-ha! That’s it!’
—  Diamond Kathleen, from a collection called Confessions on Being a Writer (for poetry and prose, visit: papotes.tumblr.com)
That could’ve been all she was looking for: a fight. She wanted someone to see through her tower, but instead I cowered in front of the dragons. I thought she was guarding herself against me. I thought she placed the demons there to repel me. But I realize now that they came when she was unaware—they kidnapped her happiness and held her mind for ransom.
—  Diamond Kathleen, Haunting
The white sun flitted through the rustling leaves overhead, casting kaleidoscope shadows against her skin. Partly-yellowed leaves fell to the ground around us as an unwarranted breeze stalked past. I felt the skin on my arms prickle against it. And, still, she was unmoved. Nature seemed to have this gravitational pull towards her—as if all it took was the sheer will power of her mind to create a symphony or bring the whole earth to ruin.
—  Diamond Kathleen, Aphrodite

“I’m always falling in love with men who write poetry because I’m hoping that they’ll mean it some day. I’d like for words to not be bruises, for the taste of ashes to be washed from my mouth. I want to read things he used to write without suffocating when I feel my ribs caving in.
I keep falling in love with poets because I’m praying that, once, at least, their words will have meaning.”

And then I embraced what woman really was. I realized it wasn’t the girl you just simply want to fuck. She is the one who has no reason to be loved. She isn’t different from anyone else. It is she who stands like a priestess at city gates, the whole world pulling at her from every angle, and all the while she is bravely screaming, ‘Accept all happiness from me.’
—  Diamond Kathleen, Aphrodite
For Meg, who requested a poem

You hold your heart in your hands,

Covered in bruises and scrapes and scars,

And you wonder if anyone would want

Such a battered package.

But I want to show you

How the world is constantly breaking down

Only to build itself back together:

Stars are exploding in the sky,

Having their own nuclear warfare,

And they are brave enough to shine at dusk;

Trees are falling in the forests,

Some struck by lighting,

Some giving in to old age,

But they always leave another tree in memory;

The ocean accepts our debris,

The butts of cigarettes and old bottle caps,

All the horrible things no one wants,

And still finds a way to kiss the shore.

This is to say:

If we can still admire the earth’s beauty

Even when it decays before our eyes,

How could someone not want you?

This is to say:

You are also fighting battles,

You may also want to fall without a sound,

You may accept the pollution of others’ words,

But I know you can still shine,

You can create lovely memories,

You can still find a way to love those who hurt,

Because you are brave,

You are courageous,

You are wanted.

(For more poetry and prose, visit: papotes.tumblr.com)

People are always trying to figure out if characters in our stories are autobiographical or if they’re just plainly made up, as one would assume in fiction. But the truth may be that characters aren’t either. People all have a little bit of everything in them, and some qualities are stronger than others. So, for me, sometimes, sure, characters can be autobiographical, if by autobiographical you mean that they act and think like me. But, that also makes them biographical of others, because no one is ever alone. This is why Lewis said we read, isn’t it? ‘We read to know we’re not alone.’
—  Diamond Kathleen, from a collection called Confessions on Being a Writer (for poetry and prose, visit: papotes.tumblr.com)
Her body lay still in deep blue satin. The silk draped on alabaster skin, clinging like royal curtains on marble pillars. Her bare skin: so soft and so cold. Her lips were like a budding tulip in winter. All other color had faded. Her hips and collar bone protruded a little, and her ribs formed a faint silhouette. One could not help but assume it was a spell. And, in a way, it was. We were all under her spell.
—  Diamond Kathleen, Blue Satin

When my stepfather was four years old, his father died. I don’t actually know how he died. I always imagined it was a car accident. But maybe it was from a heart attack or something less tragic. I have this story in my head, and I don’t know how it got there, but it goes like this:
My four-year-old stepdad is shooting crumpled up balls of paper into a wastebasket on some afternoon in early summer, late spring. One of those days when you know the heat is coming, and you can feel it tickling up your neck, but you know it’s not quite arrived yet. It makes everything feel like it’s languishing.

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