inked wishes

caitlin and nicole -- two girls grasping at words to label the anatomy of their inked souls. writers. readers. music addicts.

[alonesomes]

I think that love poems are really powerful when they’re written by people who aren’t in love. Almost as if to say:Look how much I can hurt without anyone’s help. Look how full of no one I can be without collapsing. This love poem is proof that I know how to carry a torch. This love poem is proof that I’ve had the dream with a king-sized bed in it. This love poem is screaming out an open window, is screaming into my pillow. I know what I’m capable of.

Caitlyn Siehl, Proof (via alonesomes)

[lifeinpoetry]

I have never been a lonely god but when he kissed my mouth I could relate to the creation of a varied terrain like Braille under my foot I cannot say for sure where this is going.

— Paige Ackerson-Kiely, from “Have Never Been a Lonely God,” My Love Is a Dead Arctic Explorer

[larmoyante]

Is that what writing amounts to? The voice your ghost would have, if it had a voice?

Margaret Atwood, MaddAddam (via larmoyante)

[starredsoul]

emily palermo || the be-all 

[tristamateer]

I’m in love with my anger / my war-won body / tense and vicious.

Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

[latenightcornerstore]

So maybe this time, love doesn’t kick down the door— doesn’t rattle the windows or plant weeds in the flower garden. Maybe you can’t smell the smoke because, for once, nothing is burning. Maybe this love is all the things those loves wanted to be when they grew up. Maybe you spent all that time running so that you’d know how to hang up your coat when you were ready.

Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[lifeinpoetry]

Sometimes a bird sings in my chest. I hold my breath. I squeeze your throat.

Paige Ackerson-Kiely, from “Anorgasmia,” My Love Is a Dead Arctic Explorer (via lifeinpoetry)

[youarejeffs-blog]

Finally, I’m Not In Love With You Anymore

I just thought to myself, “you don’t love him” and this is the first time it hasn’t felt like a lie.

So, as a lot of you know, I’ve been pursuing writing in my personal and educational life for as long as I can remember. All I’ve ever wanted to do is write, to have people read what I have to say and tell me that they know what I’m feeling. And the first step has finally happened.

Thought Catalog published an essay of mine that I wrote. It would mean the world and more to me if you read the article, or shared it with people that you think would be able to take something from it.

Thank you to everyone that’s continued to support me throughout everything. I’m more grateful for you than I could ever articulate.

[tristamateer]

1. I miss the sound of your voice. Is it okay to say that? 2. Is it also okay to say that I feel like I’m drowning? Both in overdramatic metaphors and in the absence of you? I feel like every day without you in it may as well have been spent at the bottom of my bathtub. I can’t hear anything. I can’t breathe right. 3. It took me a whole week to realize I was getting sick. I thought this is just what it must feel like to not be kissing you. 4. I hate that you stopped reading my poems. 5. I’m having a lot of trouble kicking the BIG sads. I keep forgetting to eat. I spend too much time in the shower. I organize my shampoo bottles and knock them all over. I use every kind of soap that I own and I still don’t feel clean. 6. I’m not gonna ask you to stay. I just want to.

“6 Texts I’m Not Sending You” Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

[tristamateer]

I said I’d never write another poem about you, but everything is a metaphor for the way that we left each other. Birds flying south for the winter. Rivers running to the sea. The moon stuck struggling in its orbit and never really going anywhere at all. The other day a coworker asked me how you’ve been and I thought that he was joking. It took me a full minute to put it together. I’ve gotten so good about not flinching at the sound of your name that people don’t know I’d still throw myself mouth-open into the ocean for the chance to drown somewhere you might see it.

“This Is What Baggage Looks Like” Trista Mateer (23 of 30) after Ashe Vernon  (via tristamateer)

[poppyflowerpoetry]

i.  yesterday i slept in a shirt you gave me and pretended it didn’t mean anything, like i didn’t stay up half the night thinking about how it’s the closest i’ll get to your skin again. ii.  there are soft spots in between all the hurt, moments where i forget, fuzzy patches of lightness where there still is a version of me that doesn’t flinch at the sound of your name.  iii. these words are heavy in my hands. it’s the first time i’ve been glad you don’t care much for poetry. i wonder if the next girl you love will have ink in her veins like i did. i wonder how willing she’ll be to bleed for you. i wonder a lot of things. iv.  i got my wisdom teeth out the first tuesday without you. i’m the kind of tender that hurts to the touch. my tongue keeps finding its way back to the scar tissue. my mouth still tastes like all the things i’ve lost.

ugly truths i’ll never tell you by Auriel Haack (via poppyflowerpoetry)

[visual-poetry]

by grigor atanasov (+)

[on tumblr]

[brennatwohy]

-Brenna Twohy, Forgive Me My Salt.

Forgive Me My Salt is available for pre-order here!

[book-caps]

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night

[darshanasuresh]

didn’t know this could taste so sour, the backs of your knees against  the foot of my bed for the last time.

what do you want me to say? that i’m sorry for cracking my body down the middle (like i always told you i would)? that i’m sorry i ever loved you when i knew it would be too much? 

i do not know moderation, and i am sorry for this. when you touched my face for the last time, i unspooled in your hands. 

the hurt of having someone you love be the one to pick you clean is something i will never tire of. blood in sink. burns on the table. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.

i keep writing poems about saying sorry, and still none of them are enough.

darshana suresh

[tristamateer]

this is from my book The Dogs I Have Kissed

[tristamateer]