philophobia

you don't want me

[paintbrushlips]

I am not all there and you are not put together because your fragile seams are bursting with all the pieces of me that couldn't be found anywhere else and when our lips interlock, they settle into the empty places inside of me as i restitch the patchwork of your skin with my metallic tongue.

[jane-eyyyre]

I hope you fall in love With someone who always texts back and never lets You fall asleep thinking you’re Unwanted. I hope you fall in love with someone Who holds your hand during the scary parts of Horror movies and burns Cookies with you when you’re Too busy dancing around the Kitchen. I hope you fall in love with Someone who sees galaxies in your eyes And hears music in your Heartbeats. I hope you fall in love with someone who Tickles you and makes you smile On hard days and on easy Ones. But beyond all that I hope You fall in love with someone Who will never leave you behind And who will never take you For granted, someone who Will stand by you when you’re Right and stand by you When you’re wrong, Someone who has seen you at your worst And has loved you Still. I hope you fall in love With someone who Kisses you in the rain And hugs you in the cold and Wouldn’t have you any other Way.

Wouldn’t It Be Wonderful, l.h.k (via bl-ossomed)

[thehauntedbyhumans]

NaPoWriMo #17: Variations on College Life at Midnight

I.

The sky earlier today was blue before we blinked our way through the endless metronome of a cursor on a blank Word document, clicking away like one-and-two, one-and two. We count our exhaustion in unwritten words and cold coffee dregs and time—hours that could have been for you and me— midnight, one AM, two.  

II. “When we are old,” we say, laying sprawled out in the dark, “we shall fumble for our canes and wear dentures, swear like hooligans and drool. And we shall call children whippersnappers and gum corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day and we will never, ever be able to find our glasses our marbles our time to die.”

III. Dearest Professor, Lost my will to give a shit— The weather’s too nice.

IV. Sometimes when I am tired, I like to stack my textbooks one on top of another, and then, in a moment of glorious anarchy, knock the tower down.

[fuck-that-shitx-deactivated2021]

I was seven years old when my teacher told me that the most colorful insects were also the most venomous ones and I was sixteen years old when I looked into your green eyes and realized that he had been right all along.

(via b-lissfulminds)

[paintbrushlips]

You can make my heart stop beating. You can pull the breath from my lungs, The words from my lips, The skin from my body. You can beat me until blood Paints maps of our history Across the floorboards And you can tear into your veins Until they entwine like lovers’ legs. You can fondle my arteries With the tip of your blade And send bullets through my skull Just to hear them ricochet Through grey matter But you can’t change the messages in the sky. Eternities have come and gone As stars have lived and died in solitude, Too far from your tongue To be destroyed. Whether you are kissing my neck at eleven pm Or slapping me sober at two in the morning, They’re there, waiting to show us that they are Tiny promises glowing against a bed of velvet. When you lie down in the grass at four am, Too drunk to walk, too high to hate, And when I lean back against the cold park bench At one am, fighting my retinas and the opiates in my bloodstream, They’re the same stars, Hanging stationery in the same sky, Behind a curtain of smoke and lies. You can caress your own flesh As you plunge knives into mine, Twisting the blades until they and my muscles unite In solidarity against anxiety. You can run my tongue over your barrel And let me swallow bullets Until the sun comes up And only the stars will bear witness In their infinite glory, A million miles from our eyes As we lie under the sheets enveloped by their gaze.

[paintbrushlips]

I’m so fucking sad I cannot feel my own fingers As they type words that I know will only push you away

[paintbrushlips]

He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t yell,

He doesn’t hurt you the way you’ve been hurt before,

The way you know how to be hurt.

He doesn’t touch you with his lips

Or hold your hand in his.

He isn’t weak, he doesn’t let you stop breathing

Even when it feels like your heart is on its last beat,

Nor does he stroke your hair as he cradles

You against him over the sheets.

He isn’t a gentleman though he dresses the part.

He doesn’t know you,

He doesn’t hate you,

He doesn’t let you push him away,

Or maybe you can’t let yourself.

He never asks; he only tells.

He can’t stop the pain he caused and

Perhaps he doesn’t know how

To stop causing it.

There’s a chance he doesn’t love you;

He isn’t loyal, he isn’t faithful,

He’s never happy

And no effort on your part can ever please him.

He hurts, he aches, he teaches you

About emotional pain so heavy

The physical pain dissipates under its weight.

He is love.

[faithandotherdrugs]

I only write when I am falling in love, or falling apart.

(via may-yuna)

[panamaweddings]

You claim to love her, inside and out, but the only time you call her beautiful is when it’s 3 in the morning and I’ve already turned you down.

girls tell each other everything, c.j.n. (via panamaweddings)

[paintbrushlips]

I told you I'd write you a poem But I always thought I'd be smiling while I did

[upsidedown-mountain]

When we were kids, we used to envision our teenage years with lipgloss, silky straight hair, and shiny new cars. And maybe in part that’s true. But no one ever warned us about how it would feel. Dirty. Like nails on concrete floors, scratching to tunnel out of who we are, who we’re expected to be, scratching to cross out all of the things we used to be. Full of long sleeves and jeans in the summer to conceal the tracks in our skin, digging to find the answers our parents couldn’t give, bandages and make up just to make up for the trenches that got deeper every time we didn’t hear the answer that we wanted to hear. It feels like the sinking in a girl’s heart when she hears, “Well she asked for it. Dressed like that? What a slut.” Like learning to suck in our stomachs and our cheeks and to look the other way when boys whistle, because “boys will be boys,” but girls can’t be girls when they cry themselves to sleep for the fourth time that week, and they bring bruises to show and tell but can never really tell because, we all know she’s lying. Girls can be so melodramatic. It feels like an every-man-for-himself survival of the fittest that Darwin himself would rise to see because getting our first car was never really a rite of passage, But a way to escape.

The things no one talks about (via upsidedown-mountain)

[hopingfortherightwords]

He was a boy With the world written across his lips Walking as though he had never been hurt And maybe he hadn’t Not everyone in this world is broken

[blossomfully]

It hurts, But at least now I’ll write good Poetry.

Ten word story (via blossomfully)

[paintbrushlips]

Fear is stronger than love because skin is thicker than blood And we paint white roses red because beauty is not subjective And while love is weak, morality and ethics are weaker, So if you were not born of a mold you must chisel yourself Until your curves and corners are cohesive with acceptance. We kill and we maim because beauty is not subjective And if the folds in your skin represent a separate history, Prepare yourself for victimhood because The best of us sculpt facades of human skin and lipstick While the worst of us tear humanity muscle from bone As if a color, a book, a language, a set of genitalia Is the difference between hunter and hunted.

[paintbrushlips]

Words flow like sap from the lips of trees, Emotions stand bare beneath sweltering lights, Praise rushes forth as whitewater rapids, Overwhelmed, Confused, Saved. My work cannot rival that of the poet. Simplicity, complexity, metaphors, similes, Literary elements from high school English Plastered together with haphazard passion. Organized chaos evokes emotion, Praise, Applause, Adoration. White screen stares back like morning dewdrops, Promising potential, glorious as it may be, But feeble fingers cannot shape such perfection, Language too simplistic or too emotional. Disappointment, Anger, Blank pages Waiting for the hand of the poet. Emotions cower in corners, wrapped in towels, Afraid of the men who left them there. Praise hesitates and falters, drunk on a Friday night, And the magic I long for laughs in my face, So close, yet so far.

[delicatepoetry]

my depression, is not your adjective. it is not your sad sighs into his neck, it is not his arms tucking you to sleep and wiping your tears after a hard day. it is not your throwaway word when you are sad for a few hours. it is not scars up and down your thighs being gently rubbed, tenderly kissed. it is not being a “sad girl” or an “anxiety queen.” it is not lying on your bedroom floor three in the morning bobbing your head to the sound of melancholic songs. it is not bumping into the beautiful boy at the coffee shop who happens to fall for the girl with bitter black eyes. it is not your typical teenage diary, or romance novel where the lead character is broken enough, just to find someone to glue their cracks back together. my depression is the devil on my shoulder, the ghost living in my bedroom walls, the last whisper of pain i hear before i fall asleep, if i fall asleep that is. it is the caution tape i wear as a necklace, warning you to stay away because i might just break, and i don’t want you to step on the pieces. don’t even touch them. it is the teeth i break in dreams, the blood i swallow with tears. it is the razor sitting under the mattress, waiting to be touched again. the personal conversations i have alone while looking down the gun barrel, the thought of death that soothes me like a song. it is what sits on the edge of my lap, reminding me. reminding me, that today is another day it will try to control me, and when i push, it pushes back harder, when i pull, it wraps it’s hands around my neck like a noose. when i scream, it’s all in my head. every move i make, it wishes i were dead.

i.c. // my depression, is not your romance. (via delicatepoetry)

[paintbrushlips]

Like delicate sunlight, We blossom into orange flowers Whose petals fall.