God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise

[wordsnquotes]

It’s okay. Everyone’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes.

Andrea Gibson, Angels of the Get Through (via wordsnquotes)

[saintjoan]

— margaret atwood, excerpt of circe/mud poems

[thelovejournals]

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

Sylvia Plath (via thelovejournals)

[thelovejournals]

I have a deep fear of being too much. That one day I will find my someone, and they will realize that I am a hurricane. That they will step back and be intimidated by my muchness.

Michelle K., Rumbles From My Head  (via thelovejournals)

[queensummit]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

Act nice but my body is falling apart

Dress rich but my body is falling apart

Keep going but my body is falling apart

[inkywings]

Dear God, sometimes I imagine your laughter and it is clean and thin, like green thread of summer evening. When it is all faded and gone, the sound of my mother  chewing spoonfuls of brown sugar in the dark, the sound of sweet earthquakes splitting between her teeth, is the next best thing.  Dear God,  in another version of this,  home is nothing more than sunken walls and  tired foreheads touching ground in tired prayer. In another version of this,  the way our shoulders touched and it sent gravity swelling in our palms, is the only thing we will never have to translate, the only thing we will never have to fold small enough to fit into the mouths of others in order for it to be real. Dear God,  can you tell me when we began to house a stranger? Or if not that, how the stranger is the one who built the house?  Can you tell me why it is lonely to begin a poem about a big-boned, benevolent love and to have it open its sad eyes halfway  and to have it change its name to something terrible? Dear God, in another version of this,  I hear your laughter and it is not unfamiliar.  It tastes like speaking forever about nothing. It tastes like friends who scratch your scalp with their nailbitten fingers and tell you there is nothing better than your flavour of lost. Dear God, the dinner is cold and I am trying my hardest.  In another version of this,  I am trying and  the whole world nods and  everyone breathes a sigh so full, so tornado that the whole evening kneels to pray and everyone believes me.

This is Not a Prayer | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)

[movie-addicted]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

For years I have not been happy, because I have been filled with an ache of longing for you. I have been glad; I have been joyful; I have been ecstatic; but I have not been happy.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a diary entry featured in “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed; The Loves and Love Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[thedevilsblonde-deactivated2014]

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god.

Anais Nin (via hadaes)

[timbllr]

[takeyourtimee-deactivated201607]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

What are we made of but hunger and rage?— Anne Carson, excerpt of To Compostela

[specta-a-deactivated20180419]

[danger]

[tamper]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.— Sade Andria Zabala

[cierajonesphotography]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

I did not expect to survive, earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect to waken again, to feel in damp earth my body able to respond again, remembering after so long how to open again in the cold light of earliest spring—— Louise Glück, excerpt of “Snowdrops,” The Wild Iris

[uneplace-ausoleil]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

Tell him yes. Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no.— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

[abduction]

[howcomeicantsleepatnight]

And then I think I don’t need to write anything down ever again. Nothing’s gone, not really. Everything that’s ever happened has left its little wound.— Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness: The End of a Diary