[chriskingwong-deactivated201711]

I can’t really explain why I’m so drawn to her

But it might be because

She wears beauty like her favorite shirt

Uses sunshine as toothpaste twice a day

Loves like she can’t be hurt

And runs the red lights anyway

Because if she took the time to stop for every guy that wanted her to slow down

She’d still be backing out of her driveway

          -chriskingwong

[sundxwn]

Terra Mystica by Mandraque

[wasifio]

along the grand canal in venice

[wasifio]

finally got a million notes on a post tho

[tylerknott]

Typewriter Series #639 by Tyler Knott Gregson

[cutieaquatic]

[writingsforwinter]

one of those poems in which everyone hurts the protagonist

What you must understand is that sometimes there’s more flesh

left on a fish carcass than bone, that sometimes everything goes

the soft bruising of rotten fruit, that there are days

when even picking up groceries feels like a bloody victory.

My father always hung up the phone when I called on his birthday

as soon as I uttered the words I feel so- and the dialtone

finished the rest of my sentence. There are men

that have made dating so painful I would rather yank out my eyeteeth

one by one with string than ever get into someone else’s bed again.

I was taught in grade school that when a stranger approaches

asking for help finding his dog, you should automatically lift up your skirt

because whatever is about to happen will happen anyway.

Straight from birth, when the umbilical cord almost choked me,

I learned that sometimes it’s not just ropes that can form nooses,

but people too. I admire the bravery of fall leaves because they’re experts

at learning how to let go, of the last cigarette in the pack

because even when alone it still has the power to steal the breath

from someone else’s lungs, of women that carry their wounds

like wooden crosses on their backs every day.

What you must understand is that there has been a plethora

of cousins and uncles and strangers in my life

who have looked at me in silence like they were skinning a rabbit,

who tried to crack the sharp ribs of How are you today?

just to find an I’m fine covering up a screaming wealth of

Hand me the sharpest knife you can find’s underneath.

My bloodline is just another reason to feel ashamed

for something I didn’t do.

[pigmenting]

The first time I saw her… Everything in my head went quiet. All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared. When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments. Even in bed, I’m thinking: Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips… Or the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek. I knew I had to talk to her. I asked her out six times in thirty seconds. She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going. On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or talking to her… But she loved it. She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day. She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk. When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times. I’d always watch her mouth when she talked— when she talked— when she talked— when she talked; when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges. At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off. She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her. But then… She said I was taking up too much of her time. That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work… When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line.. When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking… And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place. She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but… How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her? Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t. I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her. Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin. I see myself crushed my an endless succession of cars.. And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on. I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.. How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe. How she blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out—… Now, I just think about who else is kissing her. I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once—he doesn’t care if it’s perfect! I want her back so bad… I leave the door unlocked. I leave the lights on.

Neil Hilborn, “OCD” (via ultimateslice)

[crescentmoon06-deactivated20230]

[thestriversrow]

“There will come a day

When the fear of death will be the favorite joke

Passed amongst corpses,

And they’re already laughing

My love, please don’t be afraid, but there will come a day

When field mice play in our empty sockets

When our bones become homes for living creatures other than our egos

When time jostles our skeletons out of the composition that is me and you

Will write with us, love letters that spell I owe you eternity

If we believe in life after death

Then I often wonder why we assume the dead like coffins

When people were never meant to live in boxes

So I pray that our children have the good sense to leave us a little wiggle room

Leave us exposed like stray dogs in a thunderstorm

I will hear the breeze, but not know it as the breeze

I will feel the rain, but not know it as the rain

I will behold the sky, but not know it as the sky

Instead,I will hear the breeze and think it is your laugh returning to the hearth of my ear

I will feel the rain and think it is the pinprick of your kiss

When the rain is tender I will know that something has softened you

When the rain is violent I will know that something has shaken you

In this newfound understanding without eyes or ears or hands or lips

Our bare bones will make love in the dirt, never knowing our nakedness Imagine, a course wind cursing through a calligraphy of weeds In our disrepair we have grown gardens of ourselves

Sprouts of curious grass shooting from my eye sockets

Our knuckles, hard, smooth skipping stones meant for child’s play

The devilish sun picking its way through your missing teeth

Neither one of us can keep from smiling these days

The days go unnoticed and the nights go unslept

We talk with our souls through the holes in our ribs where organs once sat

Imagine, your skull in mine both reduced to grins

Both washed clean of our skins and our sins

Growing young again

Forgetting why we ever wrinkled or why we ever furrowed our brow

With the plow, the plow of anger

Become dust with me, insignificant and everywhere

For I will love you, even after your marrow has become a whisper

Your bones, nothing but the snickering of gravel

With the sunk and the spaces that are shadows

Whats behind your skeleton, laced with mine I will tie your soul on my ankles and know what it’s like to step into a dream

You will tie on my backbone, see how bad it hurt the day you said you were calling it quits

I don’t remember why you left, or why you came back

I don’t know how many years have passed

Not really sure years passed at all

All I know is the rain falls, you kiss me like a rainfall

The sun, it bleaches us clear and everyday is a romance

All this to say we’re already laughing

There is a wedding of earthworms and pebbles

Waiting in our tuxedo skeletons, the wrong fit

There is place for our faces to lie, planted besides, forever smiling

There is a place, where we can be still and in love

There exists a place, where we can still be in love

Just two gentle skulls.”

— Alysia Harris (via praytolove)

[nprfreshair]

Epitaph When I die Give what’s left of me away To children And old men that wait to die. And if you need to cry, Cry for your brother Walking the street beside you. And when you need me, Put your arms Around anyone And give them What you need to give to me. I want to leave you something, Something better Than words Or sounds. Look for me In the people I’ve known Or loved, And if you cannot give me away, At least let me live on your eyes And not on your mind. You can love me most By letting Hands touch hands, By letting Bodies touch bodies, And by letting go Of children That need to be free. Love doesn’t die, People do. So, when all that’s left of me Is love, Give me away. - Merritt Malloy

(via nprfreshair and elysemarshall)

[writingsforwinter]

Asperger's

He told me after the first date that he had Asperger’s.

He was always dropping plates; he’d spilled wine in my lap

so we had to leave the restaurant early.

Instead of putting my hands up, a white flag, surrendering

and saying Oh god, look at the time, I’d better go,

I set up a signal fire in my backyard to let him know

that it didn’t matter to me.

Sometimes the skyline seemed so far away

that he’d stand outside on the roof of our New York City apartment

as close to the edge as he could get, just to see

if he could touch the stars.

I held on to the back of his shirt.

Sometimes I came home from a long day at work;

I just wanted a fucking cheeseburger and some fries

and someone to rub my back, but he didn’t know what to do

when I was upset. He’d stand there, arms at his sides,

the color of his confusion seeping through his cotton t-shirt

like paint. I know you’re sad, he’d say, but I don’t know what to do.

That’s okay, I’d say.

You don’t have to.

During winter we threw snowball fights, built igloos,

drank hot chocolate. When we went to cocktail parties

I practically had to drag him out of the house.

Then I learned how hard it was for him to even

walk down the driveway to the mailbox.

We made a compromise: for every step he took from the front door,

every damn step, I kissed him.

Sometimes he cheated and took a few baby steps

just to get a few more kisses.

I obliged willingly.

After the 47th date, in the bathtub, he lit candles

and placed them all around the bathmat. There were rose petals

floating in the water like lily pads.

You know, I have Asperger’s, he told me,

wrapping his arms around my waist.

Do you still want me?

Every time, I said.

[palinanicole-blog-blog]

cut myself open for some inspiration. i guess my craft is more important to me than sustaining relations. but that’s just how i play it, people are always gonna be disposable, and then i’ll bleed words through ink pens as a way to console my soul.

i write to bleed, i bleed to write. 

pain absent in my life just don’t feel right.

[lilymochi-deactivated20170227]

[writingsforwinter]

like clockwork

On a night like this, when I still remember how my sister looks

when she holds her hair back from her face over the toilet bowl

like a mermaid stranded on the shore, I try so hard to picture

the silver light that spills through her translucent skin

and how it burns new life into her with every ray.

The way the weight of her body seems to slowly drag her down

like an anchor far out at sea, but how that light

will always eat holes through her

until her heart is exposed

ticking, flaring like a grenade, opening and closing

a thousand times in the space of one second

like the gills of a fish that’s been drowning just inches

from the tidepool.

And I remember holding my sister against the sink

after she’d swallowed a whole bottle of pills,

bending her over the porcelain basin

again and again like a marionette dancing on the string

held by its puppeteer,

the sun soaking the window,

our two bodies rising and falling

in time with one another endlessly,

she the piston and I the lever.

[findingcalcifer-blog]

hazelgrace:

augustuswaters:

okay?

okay

[allthingseurope]

Castle Hohenzollern, Germany (by KF-Photo)

[shesanargonaut]

Today, I am more Band-Aid than being.

In the morning, I fell hard for the earth, tripped over my pride, pressed the undersides of leaves into my cheek.

Sometimes, I think I can scrapbook every person whose ever touched me, keep their fingerprints in my skin, bronze them over and leave them for the neighbors to see on my shelf like baby shoes or fallen teeth.

When I saw the blood, I knew that this is what holy men felt like when they talked god, that this was going to sting scorpion, that the cuts went deep enough to color me calm.

I have never been stung by a rose thorn.

I have never been called bee or bird, darling or wife.

I have only been stove top kissed by anger, been bed sheet hidden by sighs, floorboard pressed by hipbones, palm cut so deep that had a holy man seen my wounds, he would’ve kissed the earth slow and soft, would’ve held me like a communion wafer, would’ve given me up like a lamb.

Today, I am more Band-Aid than being, more slaughter than skin.