A Place for Bloodied and Beautiful Words

This is the poetry blog of entsbehavingbadly. It belongs to the same person who had this URL when it was a regular blog. I will post my poetry here, amongst a scattering of other things.

This is my poetry about love and my loved one, about sex and bdsm, about being afraid and healing, and all the other things that fill my life with pain and joy.

Years ago,
playing with my brothers,
I was unable simply to fall:
to relax and drop backwards
onto the soft bed below.

No matter how hard I tried,
my arms always reached out,
I would stop my fall,
I would catch myself,
and try again.

Playing in the park
as a child,
I broke my arm that way.
Had I simply allowed myself to fall,
I would have been unhurt.

Suddenly, one day,
I could do it.
I could drop back into softness,
without fear,
without catching myself.

I learned to fall
without the need
to protect myself.
I learned to fall,
without being afraid.

Falling, mine.

Come watch the boy, the rare creature
Watch through what he has tried to hide
With a smile on his face, and his features in place
But look closely, there’s nothing inside.
Come watch the boy to whom it comes easy
Who gets what you wanted for free
He never goes out, he’s battered by doubt
And he’s just what you wanted to be.
You see he’s in control and he’s smiling
As happy as any you’ll find
Who dances all day, plays the whole time away
But nothing contained in his mind.
He hasn’t a thought not an interest
He hasn’t a worry or care
So come see the toy
Look close at the boy
And you’ll see that there’s nobody there.

Nobody There, by my beloved.

When people compliment me they are picking me apart.
My lips, my eyes, are beautiful, they say.
But my lips are not beautiful when they crack and bleed,
And my eyes stare back constantly from movie screens,
But I guess it doesn’t matter because I can barely see.

They say I’m beautiful because I’m white and thin.
The truth is I look like off mayonnaise,
And I’m not as thin as I used to be.
It’s not a privilege to think the only thing beautiful about me
Is how skinny I was when I was 15.

When people compliment me, I just want to scream
For them to come up with something original;
For them to say my graveyard smile is beautiful;
Or my skirt has pockets greater than Alexander’s hair;
Or the way I obsess is truly abysmal.

Why must my compliments be as vanilla as me?
Why do they pick me apart into bits
And hang me up so I can be appreciated ‘properly’?

Listen, darling,
I know it’s getting pretty late
and my room is littered with half-empty bottles of wine.
I know you’re tired
and don’t want to sleep,
I know it’s hard to find the motivation to do anything,
anything at all.
But listen, darling,

I won’t always be in your life.
I hope that when I leave,
I leave you better than I found you.
I hope our friendship has given you strength,
or knowledge,
or laughter,
that you have found a way to silence any voice that says what you do not want to hear.

But even if I leave you with tears and scars and fury,
I hope you remember this.

Anyone who ever tells you
“No one will ever love you more than I do”
is issuing a challenge.
You should love yourself more than anyone does,
you should love yourself more than you love anyone.
It will not make you a bad person.

Darling, I have seen your moments of weakness,
I have seen your fury,
the bruises on your knee,
the sibling jealousy,
lying tongues and clenched fists,
breaking bones that aren’t yours,
the things said in hatred and self-loathing.

Darling I know you’ve done bad things,
you’ve been as wild as a bleeding wolf,
but I promise you,
you will never stray so far from your chosen path,
that love cannot bring you back.

Darling, my only prayer for you,
is that you carry love with you always:
a love that proves wrong anyone who ever said
“No one will ever love you more than I do”.
Love yourself more than any of them.

Darling- by me.

This summer,
I made soup.

I’m a little better,
and I have more hope.
Whenever it got bad,
I made soup.

I made a lot
of goddamn soup.

One week,
I got so bad,
that I cooked everything.
Even the chicken
we’d been saving for dinner.

It was still too hot
to be eating soup.

We had nothing left
except limes and jam.
But you went out
you bought bread
and ate with me in silence.

I never wanted
to be looked after.

I don’t need a knight,
or a babysitter,
but it sure was nice
not to eat that soup,
on my own.


My beloved is made of blood.
He has unseen white bones,
stretching at his skin
like knives, or stones.
He has soft red flesh,
and delicate skin,
his softness without
belying hardness within.
He has clever hands,
and his arms are strong,
he has soft lips and sharp teeth,
his eyes are wild and his hair is long.

But my beloved is made of blood,
for it is blood that heats his skin
and brings life to his wild eyes,
that drags my stolen breaths in
to feed his bones, and heart. 

Do not speak to me,
of strength
and weakness.

Today my beloved
found the strength
to leave the room.

I swelled with pride.
What bravery,
what tenacity.

Today I visited
my grandmother
in hospital.

I did not flee,
from the thought of germs,
nor from criticism.

Today my grandmother
laughed about being
constantly in hospital.

I have been watching
her die for eight years
now, eight long years.

Do not speak to us
to say “have strength”.
We are stronger than you know.

—Do not speak to me of strength, by Maggie McGuire (me).


Recently my grandmother found out I’m queer. Her response was to tell me that she disapproves of me living with my “friend” (i.e. my girlfriend) and that I should give up my vile queer ways and become a Christian (Lol). She even sent me a bible.  Here are its remains, which I made into black-out poetry.

Poem 1: Bisexual (from Leviticus 19:9)— “Have sexual relations with her.  Have sexual relations with him.  Have sexual relations with both a woman and a man.  Have sexual relations with yourself. Vomit on everyone who does not respect you.”

Poem 2: Fisting (from Judges 8:5)— “water/ lap the water/ drink/go down to drink/your hands/go down/I give into your hands/go down/encouraged/down/on the seashore/the whole hand/your hand/inside/I get to the edge/and shout/grasping/crying out/Beth/Beth/Beth/Beth/Beth/God/I came”

Poem 3: A Letter to the Exiles (from Jeremiah 28:13) — “Ze said: ‘Do not let lies name you, nor harm your heart. Gather. Raise the sword against them. They scorn and reproach, for they have not listened— again and again have not listened.’ “

Poem 4: Child (from Ezekiel 16:22) — “Your father and your mother rubbed salt in. No one looked on you with pity or had compassion enough for you, for on the day you were born you were despised. Live! Grow.  I looked at you and saw you were enough.”

Poem 5: Father (from Ezekiel 16:22) — “You never adored us. You became very angry. You took some out on us. Your sons and daughters were not enough? You slaughtered— in all your detestable practices— our youth.”

Poem 6: Misandry (from Acts 27:41) — “Dangerous men should be broken.”

(via jaimelannistersgoldhand)