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"It's ten steps in and a hundred miles back out."

Language is what honors the vanishing.
Or is language what slows the leaving?
Or does it only deepen what we know of loss?

Inside us, constellations,
bit thread knotted into night’s black drape.
There are no right words,
if by right we mean perfect,
if by perfect we mean able to save us.

-From "The Failure of Language" by Jacqueline Berger

You will call me sweetheart
and I will still stumble over
good morning

I will want to know how many breaths you take after waking up
before you consider yourself alive

I will shiver when you touch me
do not be offended;
you are the warmest person I know.

— How the beginning will go - Meghan Lynn (via kvtes)

(via b0rn--backwards)

3:40 pm  28,050 notes

8:20 am  271 notes

“Some scars have no story, some
are staring at you & waiting
to be explained, some scars
are the car crash—the accident.
Tonight the universe told me
slow down or you’ll hurt yourself.
It said it when I got up too quickly
& then somehow I was falling & then
my side was bleeding, skin like
a lottery ticket someone took
a quarter to but lost everything.
A new story is a new scar. I think
that’s what I’m trying to tell you.
I’m trying to tell you how easy it is
for me to hurt me. Nothing tearing
things apart but my own heart playing
some sandpaper serenade, nothing
but myself vicious against my ribs.”

Moriah Pearsonscars  (via mooneyedandglowing)

(via mooneyedandglowing)

11:34 pm  265 notes

We had entire roofs built under our feet,
kingdoms under our lapels, empires
in the smalls of our growing backs.

I am trying my hardest to call this a poem
but I miss you. My throat smoked its first
cigarette this morning.

No tobacco, just silence. Both of them
line your lungs in black and forget to
keep you afloat.

I’ve dirtied the margins of us
too permanently to ask for another paper.
But I have entire journals to spare.
We don’t have to finish, just
start again sometime.

My 3 AM cieling calls this thing
lonely. My mama calls it bitter.
I don’t know what you would call it.
I don’t know if you would call at all.

We were ready for worlds larger
than our backyards. We were tailors
of hems wider than us, hems that waited for us
to swell into them.

I am trying my hardest to call this a poem
but I miss you. Nothing has shifted
since the first line, so these hems I am left with
need tightening.

Maybe these roofs need
disbanding, these kingdoms need fire.
Maybe I made more mistakes than
I made promises
and maybe this poem only ends when
my 3 AM cieling calls to tell me
you’re back.

This Poem Needs Ending | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)

3:40 pm  339 notes

8:20 am  352 notes

“You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.”

— Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (via am-foghar)

(Source: feellng, via b0rn--backwards)

3:40 pm  3,040 notes

“I destroy myself so you can’t.”

— Six Word Story #1 (via analest)

(Source: lost-explorations, via c-i-t-r-u-s-burst)

8:20 am  305,467 notes

“at this time last year
i was a mess and i feel
like a mess again”

— A messy haiku - jw (via avdotiya)

(Source: spittingpebbles, via teaspoonss)

6:43 pm  143,823 notes

3:41 pm  229,172 notes


Handpoked Lisianthus and bird wreath on Nanette.
By MagpieFeed

10:19 am  7,863 notes

You carry so much shame
in that head of yours
that your head
can’t even hold itself
up anymore.

You carry shame
for the things you
never had control over.

You are never responsible
for other people’s sins.

— 6:22 p.m. (It’s not your fault)

(Source: expresswithsilence, via expresswithsilence)

8:20 am  423 notes

Unedited Thoughts While on YMCA Property

rainydaysandpoetry:

oh my gosh did I just park

next to my ex-boyfriend’s car

once the little hand reaches six

the room floods to the brim geez

is that cliché

am I cliché

is writing mental poetry while on the elliptical

cliché

which ab chair is the least populated…

12:51 am  15 notes

“I don’t know what I am, but it claws and clutches at me as if I am worth reaching.”

Richard Krause, from Epigrams (via adderalldust)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via rustyvoices)

12:44 am  3,013 notes

“I feel like I’m chasing constellations
across the Milky Way:
always searching for something distinct
like a familiar face.
I’m trying to fit square blocks
into holes that don’t exist.
I’m looking for a person
I haven’t even met.
I’m running and running towards it,
but with each passing step,
the farther away it gets.
I’m trying to find the meanings
behind words that have yet to exist,
like speaking a foreign language
to my pet gold fish.
I’m stuck in this hazy cloud
reaching for things that disappear,
and no matter how much I hope,
I’m only crippled by my fear.”

— pah (via pah11)

(via expresswithsilence)

3:40 pm  25 notes

8:20 am  8,533 notes

s.t.