words and things and feelings

I like all of these

[albxtrcss]

Don’t you do that. Don’t you look at what I had for you and call it weak. Not when you were the one afraid of it. I stood there with my hands open, my mouth bruised tender with supplication. Don’t you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions, like being moved to my knees by love was a mistake that I regret. I will go to my grave with the memory of the bravery in my bones.

Caitlyn Siehl (via amesingers)

[tristamateer]

You had to stand there saying:I love you, I love you, I love you we’re soul mates, you and I, but that doesn’t mean it works that doesn’t mean it works that means my soul can’t bear to be without yours but that doesn’t mean it works

“You Couldn’t Just Leave?” Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

[wnq-writers]

January 5th, 4:02 pm - You’re gone. It hurts. February 3rd, 4:57 am - Here I am, crying an ocean of salty tears, writing about your hands and your neck and your smile. And how good you were to me. March 12th, 8:55 am - I saw you across the street. Or was it someone else? I don’t even know. But I felt a pain in my chest and it won’t go away. April 8th, 3:02 pm - Time doesn’t heal. It’s still unbearable, always will be. The weather is getting warmer, flowers are blossoming everywhere and all that happiness makes me want to cry even more. I hope it rains. I’m in pain. May 15th, 7:05 pm - I was at the museum today and that angel from one of the paintings was staring at me. I swear he had your eyes, those creamy eyes that took my breath away every minute of every day. I stood there for half an hour, pretending it was you. People gave me funny looks. Maybe I’m crazy. June 4th, 2:31 pm - I didn’t even get a birthday text from you yesterday. Nothing. I wish I could listen to that flirty lengthy voicemail you left me last year, just one more time. God, I miss your voice. My favorite songs are so worthless when you’re not the one singing. July 13th, 9:46 am - I promise I’m doing my best to get over you but all those little things I’ve been trying so hard to forget keep finding their way back to me. There must be some things I’m good at, but forgetting you isn’t one of them. August 28th, 11:14 pm - I was at a very fancy tea shop this afternoon, with old friends from high school. They got mad at me because I just wasn’t talking. Actually I wasn’t even listening. That lemon tart tasted just like your sweet midnight kisses I used to love – I was busy eating it all. September 26th, 8:49 pm - Another day spent at the library, and there was a book I couldn’t put down because the old pages smelled exactly like your cheeks and your clothes. I think I still love you. October 18th, 12:07 am - I’m breathing again. I find comfort in the wind and the clouds. I have a new found love for dark coffee; something about it fills the hole in my soul. Most nights I spend on the roof, with loud music, loud enough to turn off my thoughts, and I fall asleep right there and it’s lovely. It rained once, I was sleeping soundly and I woke up wet, and I laughed for a while, and then I cried. I’m a mess. November 30th, 1:04 pm - I think I am okay. I don’t flinch at your name anymore. I mean, there are still pieces of you in me, sometimes I remember how the sound of your heartbeat calmed me down and how just one look in your eyes brightened my day. But I’m mostly okay. I hope you are too. December 14th, 5:01 am - I don’t want to sleep. At least I can control my thoughts when I’m awake. But what can I do when I feel you in my dreams? What can I do? I don’t know anymore. I’m exhausted. January 1st, 1:11 am - There’s champagne and glitter and laughter and you’re not there but everyone is happy and so am I. A text from you. « Happy New Year :) ». Breathe in, breathe out. « Happy New Year! ». Sent. That’s it. Simple. No bitterness. No unnecessary feelings. We’re okay. We are okay. Cheers to a new year, my dear. Cheers.

btheocean - It was good while it lasted (via wnq-writers)

[freemaninparis-deactivated20180]

We’re not something, but we’re not nothing.

Unknown (via suburban-sister)

[inkskinned]

maybe there is broken glass in my blood. i am fragile all the time. always hurting something has gone rotten in the place where my heart used to be. i say i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m so fucking happy. i lie pretty. i don’t say: i’m a barely contained explosion. please somebody help me.

2.4.2015 // r.i.d (via inkskinned)

[revolutionariess]

My apologies to chance for calling it necessity My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all. Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due. May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second. My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first. Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home. Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger. I apologise for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths. I apologise to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m. Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time. Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful of water. And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage, you gaze always fixed on the same point in space, forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed. My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs. My apologies to great questions for small answers. Truth, please don’t pay me much attention. Dignity please be magnanimous. Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train. Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then. My apologies to everyone that I can’t be everywhere at once. My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man. I know that I won’t be justified as long as I live, since I myself stand in my own way. Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words, then labor heavily so that they may seem light.

- Under One Small Star, Wislawa Szymborska (via tobiasfitzosborness)

[inkedfingertips]

Whats wrong? a.) I never thought of you to be mine, but now it feels as if time is fleeting, as if everything is, and now I know what I want— and now it’s too late. b.) It hasn’t even become clear anymore, maybe I am just faded with jealousy and an inability to be what you want. c.) I’m the one night stand kinda girl, and fuck you, because I would have changed it all for you— I would have been that 1950’s smiling pin up gal, I would have been what you wanted. I was so corrupt, anything to see that smile. Why are you crying? a.) I think the weather is bringing down more than just showers from above, because darling my eyes are constantly overwatered, and I feel as though I’m drowning. Does it make sense? Does that make sense? b.) I’ve decided that I can’t be saved by your shallow promises anymore. I decided that I can’t save myself either— and now I’m left with empty purpose, with parted lips and a soft face and no expression to why. Why? I just don’t know, I just don’t know. c.) Maybe I’ve gone crazy baby. Maybe I can’t be that girl anymore. What can I do? a.) It feels hollow now— and cutie, you can keep knocking, but I don’t think I’ll be able to answer soon. b.) I think it’s fruitless, when you have caused it all and I can barely tell you why. c.) You used to provide the light in my wasteland— now I ask myself, at what cost?

answers you’ll never get, a.c. (via turnandchasethewind)

[skinfilledthoughts]

Tonight I listened to a voicemail you left me three months ago. In it, you told me to go fuck myself. I still remember that night. I still remember those words rolling off your tongue so gracefully. I remember wondering how someone so beautiful could be so cruel. Two months ago I called you at three A.M. I expected you to ignore it, or to send me to voicemail; those were two of the things you were best at. You answered and I felt my heart begin to race; you probably thought it was because I missed you, but truthfully it was because I didn’t expect you to answer, and because I really had to pee. I asked you how you were and you sat there quietly and confused. It was like you forgot that I existed and that I was once a part of your life. You told me “fine” and I smiled. That was the last conversation we had. I made sure to let go of you, and every negative word that was said, in a peaceful way. Fast forward two months, and I still wonder how you are. I still wonder how your dog is and if you’ve seen any good movies lately. If you ever heard me say this, you’d probably blush like you used to whenever I said something sweet. You’d probably think I think these things because I still love you, that I still want you. But that is not the case. You see, six months ago I was jumping through hoops to please you. To make sure that you were happy before myself. To make sure that I was the one causing your happiness. But it is not six months ago. It is now. And now I simply remember you as a person I gave my soul to. A person I told secrets to at 4am and fucked to feel a sense of closeness. A person I loved, yes. But it is not six months ago. It is now, and now I miss you. I miss the way you called randomly just to ask how my day was. I miss the way you seemed to care, even if you didn’t. I miss the friendship and the secrets and the stories. And maybe one day things will be different. Maybe you’ll call me on a Tuesday afternoon and ask how my day was. These are the things I think about before my eyes slowly close and I am finally rewarded with sleep. But for right now? Go fuck yourself.

(via skinfilledthoughts)

[wordscanbeenough]

I think I am surviving in all the wrong ways

ten word poem  (via sorrowsew)

[wordsthat-speak]

“Why are you sad?” “Because you speak to me in words, and I look at you with feelings.”

Anna Karina {Pierrot Le Fou} (via highschoolhottie)

[fleurishes]

Having strange, lucid dreams in which you are the solution and I am the problem. On both of my hands I can count all of the things I have done wrong. The people I have left. The phone calls that went unanswered. Maybe I have a problem owning up to things. Being an adult, no one tells you how complicated it can be. How people expect you to stock your bathrooms full of fancy almond hand soap. That your refrigerator must be full and smell like clementines. That you will want to stay in bed more times than you will want to leave it. That the sun is not here for us but that we can’t escape it. That no one owes us anything. I lose periods of time—days, weeks, sometimes full months—the way my dad loses his glasses, peppermints, this week’s grocery list. I have this habit of going into Barnes and Noble and pressing my nose flush up against the blank pages of notebooks. I think I just want a stranger to smell me on their hands all day and not know why.

Kristina Haynes, “Do Not Anticipate That I Will Show Up” (via fleurishes)

[rosiescanlan-deactivated2014091]

People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken. But sometimes it’s 9am on a tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.

'On Missing Them' - Rosie Scanlan (via rosieluella)

[indigogypsies]

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

E.E. Cummings (via bertiedav)

[clementinevonradics]

The story behind lobsters is that they weren’t thought of as cuisine until the 19th century. Before that they were considered peasant food, and most often served in prisons. The story behind diamonds is that they were just rocks until 1938 when there was a marketing campaign that forever linked them with love. The story about you is that you thought I was so much more than I was. The story behind art is that it’s never a masterpiece until it’s already been sold. Once it already belongs to someone else. The story behind us is that once you finally had me, you had no idea what I was worth.

-The Story Behind Lobsters, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

[clementinevonradics]

I buy all your favorite foods so I will be ready when you come home because once I did this and you said “This is how I know you love me.” I go on long walks alone and think about a poem my friend wrote that goes ”This is how you die by distance.” I hum the sound of the dial tone under my breath. I stare at my hands and wonder at their uses. I consider pawning my thighs. I consider auctioning off my hip bones. I put my breasts in a box on the top shelf of the closet. I do not need them now. I think of all the things I have to tell you when I will see you. Stories like:I just found out pumpkins are technically fruits andCary Grant’s first job was in a traveling circus andMost mammals are born able to walk and learn to run within minutes, so we are not crazy for moving so fast. This morning I wrote your name in the steam on my mirror, even though I knew it would fade within minutes In my best notebook I wrote “I miss you” ten thousand times. I wrote “I think I am missing one of my ribs” I wrote “I envy the way leaves know exactly when to fall from the branches and when to come back in the spring” I wrote “Everyone else isn’t you. It turns out that’s a huge problem for me.”

-Things I Do When I Cannot Hold You, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

[oliviacirce]

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used— She stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late, Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and Would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag— And was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers— Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands— Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped —has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)

[anthropogonie]

Addiction is tricky. For example: a man who quit smoking for 11 years spent 15 seconds in an elevator with a man smoking a cigarette. He gave in. What I’m trying to say is I think I love you again.

(via anthropogonie)