Bleeding Ink Poetry

4:16 am: all I can think about are the constellations your lips traced across my skin. You put galaxies inside my palms, and, for the first time, my small hands feel as if the weight of the moon couldn’t bring them down.

[eclecticmaiden-deactivated20130]

[heyfiki]

[laurenhooper]

Delete her number. Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.She loves you.She has been in love with you for too long.So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.Forget her.Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.Doggedly loyal to you.That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reach out to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.Right now.But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.

Lauren Hooper (via cadburycrazed)

[h-a-l-l-deactivated20210523]

[wide-openpoetry]

I’ve never really liked myself. (No, this is not going to be one of those poems) I’ve never really liked myself until I saw my reflection in the whites of your eyes from half an inch away. (No, this is not going to be one of those poems) I’ve never really liked myself until I saw my reflection in the whites of your eyes from half an inch away, hearts beating in time, your heat mixing with mine, every damn night last week. (Yes, this is going to be one of those poems) When you said that the fire had died, I wasn’t so sure, so I know that I tried to bring it back just as powerfully as we started it. And let me tell you, it’s still roaring in that hearth that you built with that heart I gave willingly and it won’t go out, not even by morning. When you eased your way back in to my mind, I swear I tasted the love six years before we fell, trembling, right back where we left off. (Yes, this is going to be one of those poems) I know that nothing about this shit is sure but the wrinkles on your bed sheets like to scream otherwise and I’ve come to believe that you’ll be my demise whether it’s willingly this time or not. So let me try to be sure about one thing. Let me be sure that this is one of those poems. Let me be sure that people know that you were never a one-time after-thought, and sometimes when it’s late at night I think about all the lightning bugs I would’ve caught if it meant that it’d be bright enough in my room for you to stay, just a little longer. Right now, though, let me be sure that we can still dance in time with no music playing and pass out, side by side, not worrying about who’s staying.

"You Called Them Fireflies" by Yours, Darcy

Day Twenty: tremble

(via writingistheremedy)

[st4ysane-deactivated20140522]

[simply-quotes-deactivated202002]

I got lost in him, and it was the kind of lost that’s exactly like being found.

Claire LaZebnik  

[lovely---desires]

I think we have a hell of a lot more control over our happiness than we give ourselves credit for. If you’re struggling with finding happiness in your life, stop waiting for it find you. Find it yourself. Stop allowing yourself to feel sad at night. If you notice that a blog on tumblr has been feeding negative thoughts into your mind, unfollow it. I don’t care if they were once your favorite blog or if they’re one of your friends, unfollow it. Throw away the memories that are holding you back, allow yourself to create new memories. And you won’t create those memories by staying inside every single night. Go out. Live. Having problems with your friends? Talk to them about it. Your friends are still being assholes? Push yourself to get new friends, you deserve people in your life that aren’t dicks. Wake up early and blast music that makes you happy. Sing and dance in the morning, it will make you a lot more excited for the day. Stop telling yourself that school sucks, even if it does. Find one good thing about school, and focus on that. And stop telling yourself that you hate everybody, loving everybody feels better. Plus, everyone hates everybody nowadays. Be too cool to be negative. Be different, be positive. And please, stop believing that happiness will come from the number of followers you have on social media, believe me, that’ll have the opposite affect.

Me (via lovely—-desires)

[hearthlessreality-blog]

[in1minute]

Happy people don’t make history. Happy people have children and then they die.

Neil Hilborn

[bbycait]

In the 1980s, American slaughterhouses began building corrals in curves, so no animals could see the blood at the end of the track. This is how we kept them moving forward. In 2001, we began building the hallways of our schools in curves. This is how we keep them moving forward.

"Rigged Game" by Dylan Garity

[leahjuliett-deactivated20171106]

The tragic flaw of the human being is that we wait for others to make decisions which determine our own happiness. I sat on the couch for eight hours one day waiting for a phone call to intoxicate my blood like vodka on an early Saturday morning binge waiting for someone else to pour me a drink to illuminate my chest because I am incapable of illuminating my own. We wait for people who have day planners full of activities that do not involve us, activities which create a void in our lives because they create a void in our happiness because without these people we are not happy. Why. Why do we let everything else in the world control how we are living or rather, dying? Because every breath we breath is a breath we lose on a tally chart written in invisible chalk. Disease controls how we die and therefore disease controls how we live. But I don’t want to live that way. I don’t want to wait all day for a letter that I will never get and I cannot allow myself to base my personal happiness on whether or not someone decides to make room in their attic for the pictures and videos from my own demise. I cannot control how I will die so therefore I will control how I will live and I will not I can not I won’t Let the phone call that I did not get on a Friday morning affect the way I feel on a Friday afternoon.

It’s 2:11 on Friday and the Snow is Melting in Northern Boston by LeahJuliett

[silver-afternoons]

You treat your skin like there are diamonds underneath it

You see the world mostly from your bedroom window, watching the stencils of shadows paint the trees and telephone wires you are waiting for a call that will not come

Do not be afraid to stand idly by and watch as the sun passes over head, the world keeping company the breeze keeping time like a metronome if your shoes are melted to the pavement there is no use in trying to move if the ground is still molten, wait for the sun to set wait for the wind to pick up do not be afraid to take advantage of the elements, they are on your side they are yours for the taking

You are an empty coal mine where young girls go to learn what cigarette kisses taste like tell them to go home, tell them there is no romance in darkness, in the smell of sulfur and burning wood

Sew yourself up, promise you will not go looking for diamonds

You are a face of jagged lines and sharp edges when he grabs you by your wrists, cut his open

[riotgays-deactivated20181114]

Depression is not a wildfire. Depression is a slow burn. Your sadness is familiar, but your sadness is not safe. I know it feels like home but it’s not. It’s not. Your sadness is the prison you don’t know you’re living in. You don’t even know you’re in the water until you’re already drowning in it. I will drag you out by the ankles if I have to, but you have to fight it. I will not let you slip away from me. It is not what you think you want. If you go it will be kicking and screaming. I will not watch as you burn yourself down. Do not flirt with death. Spit in its face and tell death to go fuck itself, not today motherfucker; I’m here to live and I’m going to fight.

“Maybe I’m selfish but I need you here. Stay.” // (s.k.) | (via drunk-en-pastels)

[vodkasauce2000]

A Rape Poem To End All Rape Poems by Rutgers University Slam Team

We were in his room after the party, The lights dim. A few drinks in and everything was warm, and smoothed over. Then this moment was quickly punctured With supposedly sweet whispers that felt like barbed wire: “Trust me,” “come on,” “Don’t you love me?” His hands pushed me back.

WARNING! It’s that time again. Time for another… “Rape poem”. The audience sighs, shifts back in their seats. “Oh boy,” you say, “these bitches are about to go off!” Off about “rape” and “pain” and “no.” I said “no” “he didn’t listen” And you ask, why another rape poem? Didn’t I just hear, like, three of these?

Yes. You probably did. Unsurprising in a country where someone is sexually assaulted every two minutes. What’s surprising is the shit people get for telling their stories, They are all lumped into one category- “Rape poem” As if trauma is a trope Violation a cliche All the while everyone is rolling their eyes and asking Why so many damn rape poems?

We wouldn’t need so many damn “rape poems” if America had listened the first time. These poems are our prayers to beat the fucking odds in this country of apple pie and roofies. We wouldn’t need so many damn rape poems if our bodies were ours’ alone. We wouldn’t need so many damn rape poems if everyone abided by what “no” meant We wouldn’t need so many damn rape poems if Budweiser stopped selling our bodies stretched across a six-pack And maybe we wouldn’t need so many damn rape poems if everyone would listen to this one.

But it seems to us these lessons are yet to be learned Don’t tell me she was sober enough to make a decision. Don’t tell me she was asking for it. Don’t tell me to pity him for facing consequences. You complain about another “rape poem” But this is all part of a culture.

The “rape poems” will continue Until I can wear whatever the fuck I want and not be called a slut! Until I can trust my drink to someone at a party when I need to take a piss! Until I can walk alone on dark streets without being catcalled! “Who’s your daddy” “get back over here” “Ow ow” “Damn, look at that ass” Until I can wear heels without being asked who I’m trying to impress! Until my voice speaks louder than my outfit! Until I’m not expected to carry pepper spray on my keychain! Until no really means NO! Until rape means crime! Until woman means human!

The rape poems will continue until there’s no damn material left.

[persepho-me]

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.”

A Good Day - Kait Rokowski (x)

[cageddbird-sings]

If someone asked me to describe myself in one word I would answer with shaky. There are seven days in a week And eight of them consist of me standing in the eye of a hurricane With my hand stretched out remembering how the storm Used to whip through my hair. I fell in love with love before I could even walk But every time someone says they love me I lay awake at 4 AM, searching for hidden lies And what they could take away from me My heart is woven from broken glass With shards sticking out in odd places But it still beats, and it falls for boys with brown eyes Way more than it should. I used to like to dance, My feet tend to take me in twists and turns that make me stumble Both metaphorically and literally. I have thought about wearing a sign Telling people to proceed with caution Before I get too close and sink my nails into their skin, Trying to lace their bones with mine Because I have a terrible habit of always feeling alone. My blood is really the ink of so many pens That I chewed up and spit out, My inspiration dwindling fast. I’ve never believed in the face I see in the mirror, Because it’s all a lie. I can still remember counting my ribs Like they were ladder rungs I could climb. Every time I close my eyes, I feel ghosts tearing me apart And my dreams are filled with people and flashes of lightening. I’ve never told anyone but every time I wake up, I have to start all over And remind myself that I do love life And not to take the pills I still have hidden under my mattress. I’m scared one day I’ll have a daughter And she’ll ask why my hands tremble so much, And why there are scars traveling up my left arm. I don’t want to have to tell her About the monster I tried to cut out of my elbow, And how much I cried before the blood made me pass out. I don’t want to have to say that sometimes the simplest things Made me curl into a ball in the shower and sob until it ran cold. I can’t bare to see how she looks at me When I explain that I get scared so easily Because all my courage was stolen with a calloused fist Hitting my face over and o v e r. I don’t want to have a son, Because I’m horrified at the thought That he might inherit my temper And we’ll be able to compare the bruises That line our knuckles when the voices get too loud And we punch a hole through a wall Because punching our heart out isn’t possible, and it’s way too messy. I’ve always said if there’s one thing I do right with my life, It’ll be to give my children someone who wouldn’t light a fire To every hope they had, Leaving their confidence weeping on the floor. They won’t cringe at the word “daddy” And my daughter won’t ever think for a second that she isn’t beautiful. She won’t think that compliments Are just another way to fool her Until she is knocked off her feet again, Shattered like a mosaic before it’s pieced together. I think too much, I love too much, I am too dependent, And I’ve been told over and over That I can’t make houses out of people I know all too well that they don’t make good ones. But I’ve been standing in this hurricane, And all I’ve ever wanted was to be somebody’s everything. The hardest lesson I’ve ever learned was that it will never happen Not when I’m not even anything to myself.

Self-portrait.; Cageddbird-sings