The Victorians honored human hair
because it was the only trait of the body
that remained after death. I shaved my legs
in your shower. I hid long strands of myself
in your pillowcases. That is all that is left.
Thinking of someone else during sex
is a cardinal sin punishable by nothing.
The heart is wanting. The heart
is perpetually two-years-old. The heart
is bad at sharing. The heart is a hungry
gas tank. The heart is not a metaphor.
When the teacher asks you what grade
you think you deserve, you will always say B+.
90% of Americans will vote for Obama
because the night before the election, he will
slow dance with his wife and kiss her forehead
and we will want so badly to believe that
they actually fucking love each other.
Writing a list of ways I could be better
and writing a suicide note are the same thing.
The heart lives in a packed elevator.
It doesn’t know what floor its waiting for
but it wants it wants it wants to get off.
The Victorians believe when you write a poem
from an airplane that moment becomes suspended
in the sky forever, like a ornament in God’s mobile.
So now you know: somewhere between Phoenix
and Las Vegas, a thousand miles up, there you are
like a grocery list pinned to blue.
See you on the other side
The cigarettes you light one after another won’t help you forget her.
You do this, you do.
You take the things you love and tear them apart
or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours.
It has been a month since
I last traced the outline of your
and tasted the factory smoke living
inside of your spine.
You are all pollution,
and still the best thing
I am constantly forgetting to keep.
One day we will learn to get tangled
within each other,
but for now telephone wires
will have to do.
And maybe this conversation
will cut off and leave us both waiting
for words that aren’t coming.
Or maybe we will erase state lines
until they don’t exist
and find each other waiting at the beginning
of a poem we always meant to write.
I will try my best not to turn any of this into a promise.
We are both terribly clumsy,
and always running into things,
it’s not our fault when they break.
I want to know all about the moons tattooed across your bones,
but I keep asking all of the wrong questions.
Are you ever coming back?
Forget it, that’s not important.
If you’re lonely,
tell the wild dandelions about my shaking hands.
Ask them not to fall apart when it
gets too cold.
Y.Z, I believe in tomorrow because of you (via rustyvoices)
I don’t believe in recovered,
the sickness of past-tense,
removed from my life permanently.
I will always
wake up every morning,
say hello to my demons,
and walk right past them.
There is strength
in the daily fight.
It is in my shadow.
People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up
And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss them so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.
hypothesis: somewhere, there are suns that group into prayer circles and sing our names. somewhere, there are places to be without letting go of home. there are kisses without touching and touching without naked and naked without speaking. somewhere, somehow, there is a body much like yours, valleys that bend and rise much like yours, toes that sink into sand and soil much like yours, speaking words much like yours. somewhere there are boys in wooden sandals and prisons with no bars, and somewhere there are people who wait for us to catch up, always waiting for us to catch up.
experiment: mix green apple vodka into your sleep tonight. dream of loving yourself. dream of building a throne out of every bone that has wronged yours. dip yourself into saltwater, listen to yourself prune. be nothing but silent, let silent be nothing but you. name the blades of grass. name them Caitlyn and Azra and Colleen and Annalise. name them Venus and Mars and Mercury. be your own inhospitable planet. leave room in your bed for no one. let them earn it. leave room on your skin for no one. let them earn it. go. run. run.
conclusion: this is everywhere we will ever be. this heart is where the home is. this heart is where the house is, with cracked shingles and rusty hinges and a kitchen that smells of dough always. this is where our parents made us. this is where our parents thought of us first, this is where they saw the idea of a shared result in each other’s eyes, in each other’s hems and necklines and sudden bareness. this place is brilliant, baby. this is not a science, this cannot be measured or calculated or poured into beakers. this is the air between fingers, this is stretch marks and lovin’ it. this is castle all to yourself, this is chasing things that are not there and fucking lovin’ it.
"#she makes good art, #BUY IT" SABRINA I'M GONNA CRY