c

♊️

[soft-lovely]

me this semester

[soft-lovely]

sleepy

[wedarkacademia]

"I've been trying to go home my whole life. All the places I run to have no room for me."

from Chelsea Dingman

[paper-wounds]

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

Screaming "but daddy I love him" on the top of my lungs knowing very well I'm a fatherless gay woman💀

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

Why are poets being tortured AND am I safe??

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

But darling, that is time's oldest trick–flying.

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

I am 21 years old still grieving the 12 year old I knew. I ask the girl in the mirror “Who stabbed my little friend?"but there's never an answer just an echo of my own words. I wonder who turned my eyes into such heavy clouds that could fill up the sea.

-surayaandpoetry.

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

sorry I didn't text back I was living in the consequence of own action😭

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

I hold on to you in a glass cage and you're always screaming, hitting the unbreakable glass: “Let me out of this cage! Let me out of this cage!” You are weak and frustrated, and your will is tainted; yet you have a smile on and it's like basking under bright suns of hope, you're happy to let go of this November: that the darkest parts of me will leave with that of November, but I do not let things go, I hold on to them...maybe too tight and maybe too close. But November has come to an end, so I burn my diary and I let you out of the cage.

We held on to November by the hand; with the strongest grip. Now when we let go of November we let go with a sigh.

But your sigh, oh your sigh, it's like a breeze of freedom. I blink and I feel lighter, Like I'm being carried by a breeze, I did not feel you shove me inside your cage. I open my eyes and I can feel my heart beat... furiously with fear...But you do not have a heart, you are an image behind a glass and your cage cannot be empty. I should not have let you out of the cage! I should not have let you out the cage!

‘when we let go of November we let go with a sigh’ -from ‘The Agonies of The Girl in The Mirror’

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

What happens when the eyes meet the mirror

A moment of realization and self reflection, to see yourself through your own eyes, but still see a whole different person ... an unknown face yet so familiar. Like a face you saw in a dream once. Like a taste that lingers on your tongue or a scent that's stuck in your nose; and reminds you of a certain time: a happy memory but you can't seem remember the happiness, just the sadness of not living in it anymore.

-From The Agonies of The Girl in The Mirror

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

“There's always an inevitable feeling that comes with not saying goodbye. A pain that haunts you because you created a ghost out of a living person. Always trying to remember their last words to you but your slowly turning your mind into a radio that keeps changing stations. But then one day you get stuck and it's just static noise. You can change that; you could call,write or text but you don't. Because you prefer it that way. You prefer to hold the knife yourself...stab yourself and twist it yourself.”

“Does it count?”

‘What?’

“When you are the cause of your own suffering...I wonder...does it count as suffering?

“Does it count as stabbing if I'm the one holding the knife?”

-excerpts from the book about the first girl I ever loved

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

It's hard growing up in a home where your neighbours decide how you should act so you have to live your whole life as an act. It's not easy growing up in a house that is infested with rats that feed off your childhood and leave you to pick up the crumbs. Where you always scrub the floor abit harder than your sister hoping that one day you'll scrub off your 'filth' before anyone realizes it's on you; or when one day your mother hears it from a neighbour who heard it from her daughter who heard it from your best friend in school who heard it from you because you thought you could trust her...She'll remember you always cleaned better than your sister. She'll remember how you've never come home drunk...shit...you don't even leave the house. So you just sit there and you look her in the eye and you lie about it... ''it's just a stupid rumour my best friend doesn't have a sense of humour!'' Then when you go to bed and lay your head. As you try to sleep the thoughts creep and it occurs to you that you just lied without shaking a bone. See that's what happens when you live in what my mum calls a wardrobe for most of your life. It gets too comfortable but despite all the colours it's always dark.

A mother always takes pride in her child, until she realises her child's pride is a different kind, and her child is different!

[butchered-icarian]

there's something about the way "francesca" represents lust yet is a song declares everlasting love and utmost devotion that stands the trial of time; the way "butchered tongue" represents violence but sounds so careful and fragile, and "unknown/nth" is his most defeated song dedicating to love...i do think unreal unearth is his best album yet, and most private one at that. like there are parts i'm not sure i'm supposed to listen to. self titled sounds so hopeful to wasteland, baby! feels like a promise to this. raucous, forlorn sound of hurt....to end it with first light...that all things end but we'll still have tomorrow and new light to look forward to...even if we've just been through hell...do you get it. do you feel me.

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

“...And though I burn how could I fall when I am lifted by every word you say to me...”

aaaahhhhh my heart just got stabbed!

[apoetyoushouldntknow]

There was once a very great American surgeon named Halsted. He was married to a nurse. He loved her immeasurably. One day Halsted noticed that his wife’s hands were chapped and red when she came back from surgery. And so he invented rubber gloves. For her. It is one of the great love stories in medicine. The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love.

When I met Ana I knew:

I loved her to the point of invention.

-Sarah Ruhl, The Clean House