Hello, mapmaker.

This is a poetry blog. Most of it will be my own work, but I may have links to my favorite poems or pictures of inspiration here and there. Contains a lot of emotional back-flips. My work is tagged as ojl.

[eesirachs]

adam wakes up, probes his side. rib gone, wound sticky. god's fingers have touched a place that will never be touched again. how does adam not curl up, swell and fall, beg god to touch him again. to touch him everywhere else. not just ribs but cheek, inner thigh, lap. the worst part of the side-wound is not that god penetrated you but that he won't do it again

[unpardonablesins]

art + lemony snicket

x x x x x

[geryone]

Loving the Dying, Len Verwey

[quotemadness]

There will always be a person who looks like a poem the earth wrote to keep you alive.

Juansen Dizon

[spitblossoms]

[refiningfire]

Extremes

[woobifytonysoprano-deactivated2]

im obsessed with this guy now

[awatercolour-deactivated2019090]

Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

[adrasteiax]

Sara Teasdale, from Autumn Dusk in “Dark Of The Moon″

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

–Margaret Atwood

[theperfumemaker]

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile children begging for coins. I met my love under an orange tree or was it an acacia tree or was he not my love?… Bells of San Miguel ringing in the distance his hair in the shadows blond-white

Louise Glück, Castile (via giardinonymphe)

[theperfumemaker]

Desires as round as peaches bloom in me all night, I no longer gather what falls.

Anne Carson, Plainwater (via theperfumemaker)

[bostonpoetryslam]

i want him to know i am not lonely          i have ghosts i have my illnesses          i have a mouthful of half-languages          & blood thick with medication doctors line up to hear my crooked heart

Safia Elhillo, “Abdelhalim Hafez Wants to See Other People,” from Asmarani (via bostonpoetryslam)

[bunlly]

I get reckless when I want to be touched. I call and hang up. I walk into the middle of the street. I lie. I dangle my phone out of the second story window, pretend I’m saving your life. The things that I want are shameful. The things that I want are meant for spectacular bodies sprawled out in big beds, or slammed up against a wall. All I’ve got is a couch and a crooked mouth that wants to bruise your neck, so I’ll pretend it’s enough to get you to come home with me. So what if I’m not spectacular? I can still have the dream of you with your hands all over me, unashamed and hungry, if I want it. Look, just come over. Just go with me here, for a second. I know you don’t love me. I know this, but pretend. Pretend for a while. I don’t care if I’m special, as long as you fuck me like I am.

Caitlyn Siehl, Spectacular Bodies (via lazypacific)

[inkskinned]

i. we’re laughing on the docks and i say i’m gonna be late to my own burial     ii. the joke is that  when i tried to bury myself i woke up with a bloody mouth and guilt spilled down my shirt    iii. tonight i want to kiss you until  we both forget about our pasts spent  cowering under quilts  and instead when we wake up we’re both cured of our mental illnesses and nobody knows us as the fucked up kids   iv. do you think if i run i can escape the map edge, or will my skeletons escape the closet i put them in? do you think i’m a failure because i tried but i  couldn’t commit or are you like me and kind of glad i botched it   v. what i’m saying is that it’s an accident we’re both here and on this planet and while most things suck you seem to get me and i’m into it so yeah we might not be able to save each other but at least i know that you’ll be the one making sure i don’t show up at that funeral   vi. i mean it’s been months since i felt good but i feel something like good when i’m looking at you and i feel something like healing when  i think of the future and i feel something like belonging  when i’m holding your hand so for right now   vii. reschedule my burial  i can’t make it, i’ve got other plans

just a hand up // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[psykhic]

“Love is a Dog from Hell” by Charles Bukoski

[seraphix]

The first time I met an angel They wore sunglasses indoors, I don’t even remember Them knocking, I just remembered pouring the tea, The cup They held looked particularly fragile in Their hands as They sipped at the cooling liquid Each time They laughed the plates in the cupboard would rattle, We talked about books, and poetry, the affairs of birds and bugs alike, even talked about taxes and the weight of wings, They were familiar, like a summer from years ago, With a movement of a few spindly fingers They would toss Their hair behind Their shoulder and I could smell something from my childhood, They would nibble at the oreos I offered, patting thoughtfully at the corner of Their upturned lips with a silk scrap they produced from Their hand knit sweater, The rings on Their fingers jingled like keys, each of them a delicate silver masterpiece, My dogs liked Them, laying against Their lap and letting Them stroke the top of their head, Not after long They stood, brushed dust off the front of Their pants and announced that They had to go, “Why did you come at all?” I asked, trying to remember if our topics of conversation held any significant meaning, “You gave me an invitation of course” They said, Their voice like cotton soaked in alcohol, Carefully They revealed a small grey feather from the same pocket that held Their scrap of silk “see? You specifically stated in your invitation that you wanted to have tea and Oreos and talk about the movie you watched.” “Oh, of course” I laughed, They laughed too before leaning in and kissing me carefully on my chin, “You’re a good kid, you’ll figure it out” They then turned, and in a light so blue I thought I was drowning, vanished.

You invited me of course (via seraphix)