Anything but Apathy

You can call me Jessica (because that's my name). Self-proclaimed poet. 22. Queer enchantress. Leave me sweet things or let me know if you could use a little sugar yourself.

[coffeepeople]

It hurts my heart to see people say that love is thrown around so willy nilly. We literally live in a world where people blow each other up and have wars and hate. LOVE IS NOT THROWN AROUND ENOUGH. PETITION FOR MORE LOVE.

[books-n-quotes]

This is brutally beautiful. So are we. This is endless. So are we.

Buddy Wakefield, Human the Death Dance (via stolenwine)

[anythingbutapathy]

me: oh yea it's been years I'm over it

also me: *was actually irreparably changed to the point that my personality and the way I interact with others and my insecurities are, even today, a direct result of what happened*

[yellowsunbluedove]

[ifiwerescience]

It’s okay. Everyone’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes.

Andrea Gibson, Angels of the Get Through (via wanheda)

[risingphoenixpress-deactivated2]

how you looked the snake in the eyes and took a hold of that apple. you, rotting from the inside, so tired of being soft sick of your broken bible spine.

Kelsey Krempasky, Eve, published in The Rising Phoenix Review  (via risingphoenixpress)

[sir-orfeo]

(…) Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it. I just don’t want to die anymore.

Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names (via sir-orfeo)

[antigonick]

I do not want to be a person.                I want to be unbearable.

Anne Carson, excerpt of Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions (via henrydear)

[sweetestsecrets]

that is to say, i forgot that resentment can live in the same house as pity, and love can sometimes share a roof with bitterness.

maria santone, from inheritance (via sweetestsecrets)

[anythingbutapathy]

i really love that poem!

Thank you so much, darling. Friday was a very hard, very triggering day and if it had to be that way it is nice to know that it at least resulted in a piece even just a few people enjoyed or connected with because that is something. Know that I am smiling and breathing just a touch easier and it means everything. I am sending all the good vibes I have stored your way. I hope the world gives you something lovely and that you are happy and at ease.

[anythingbutapathy]

Every finger is bleeding because you’ve been pick, pick, picking- trying to remove the splinter that lodged itself in your skin ten years ago. See, you couldn’t quite remember exactly where it went in so you just took your teeth to each in turn, hoping the throbbing would stop.

But you still feel the pulse of it, the desperate ache and maybe it was more a stake than a splinter.

That winter was so much marbled glass and despite the time that has passed stray fragments still litter your stomach, what you learned to swallow biting when you least expect it.

Which brings us to today, in your car, a full decade after the splinter-stake and broken glass.

Today your chest is solid brass heavy; your heart is something wild, prey escaping predator, frantic.

In the panic your lungs have forgotten how to use the air; the people are staring, they are licking their lips, blood thirsty all of them.

You are always trying to escape, but you are not safe, never safe; too many hands have torn that word right out of your throat and left you to clean it up off the floor.

After a while, you couldn’t be bothered to pick it up anymore.

[soracities]

Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk. Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to              settle the debt.

Richard Siken, from ‘Wishbone’, Crush (via weltenwellen)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. Sad too. Touch, touch me.

James Joyce, Ulysses (via niet-zsche)

[anythingbutapathy]

And while his hands were a noose, each time they fell loose you’d nectar his apology like a nervous humming bird.

-The toll of having a heart that beats 21 times per second and wings that flutter 70 times in that same instant: So you were always moving too fast to reach the logical conclusion. Meaning, of course you should have left, but how could anyone think straight when their body is that loud? Meaning, your heart was able to contradict itself 1,260 times in just one minute and there isn’t anyone who wouldn’t have trouble making sense of that. Just be glad you have the wind of strange places in your wings and that your lungs sometimes feel like singing, and that there is always so much scenery, and while you may move too fast you are now moving in the right direction. 

[bookaddictiion]

Something in me wants more. I can’t rest.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals (via bookaddictiion)

[dosenherz]

guess i’m still too soft not to invest in anger when grief licks me rough-tongue lonely. everything’s vaguely tender when i’m the graveyard for versions of myself i can’t mourn. i tell myself i’m too old to be one of the girls flinching under bullet shot sound. i bleach my words into clouds but in the end, nothing leaves my mouth. i’m too heavy. i have nowhere to grow.

dosenherz (via dosenherz)

[anythingbutapathy]

I saw you yesterday- wind blowing hair wild, feathers freeing themselves from nests of curl.

You have always looked whirlwind and cinder to me, and last night your smoke signal sky met my high-rise view of our empire, but all of it had already been long crumbled to ruin at our feet.

Later, you leaned into me and my seams threatened to unstitch; I resisted the urge to press my lips to the soft of your neck.

I settled for a sultry gaze  of thinly veiled desire that lasted entirely too long; then, I retired into the throng  of people on the street.

I tried to time my feet to the rhythm your heart beat when it was lost in the heat of my skin, some nights it felt like we were endless.

I began walking so far, so fast, I breezed right past the remains of our home my house; what a loud thing silence is, overwhelming in its stillness.

-maybe, on occasion, I still find myself a bit wistful at the sight of you