“… I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?”—Emily Brontë, from “Remembrance” (via growing-orbits)
The light underneath the door looks real and so does my skin with its flecks of gold like your jawline and west at dusk We are stars and planets and galaxies Bodies are cracked molds I am sure of this because The light escapes through your eyes.
I am not going to say your name. I am too proud to give you that kind of satisfaction. It’s not that I dislike you. I’m actually quite ashamed.
When I first met you, I thought you had the most grating laugh. It haunted me in my sleep and it would wake me up. I HATED IT THAT MUCH.
We are alike in more ways than I care to admit. Those were the ways I believed to be unique and distinct only to myself. I don’t like being reminded of myself.
Maybe it should not matter, but now you have something I thought I did. You have the beating, writhing, pulsating, loving organ in your unknowing hands. I only had the crippled replica of it.
I should not be jealous of you. You are in for a bloody war against yourself. You should be jealous of me because I have come out alive. You stand in the wreckage of the last devastation colliding, pulsing organs have wrought.
Forgive me for treating you coldly. I stop my mouth from spewing out the ugly truth when I see you.
You are a vision of lard, sweat, and glam. Please flash me with your magnificent double Ds for a shining memory to keep in the special recesses of my mind. I’ll always picture you with that beautiful glisten of yours and it will remind me that I can’t eat butter like ice cream no matter how much I shape it to look like a scoop of dairy deliciousness.
Please turn straight for me for one enlightened night. We’ll get matching tattoos of pizza rolls on the backs of our thunder thighs. I will turn you so gay after that, you’d have your own hair styling TV show.
“I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same a way soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger, we all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.”—Andrea Gibson (via loveyourchaos)
“I can’t believe I said it out loud. The truth doesn’t set you free, you know. It makes you feel awkward and embarrassed and defenseless and red in the face and horrified and petrified and vulnerable. But free? I don’t feel free. I feel like shit.”—Melina Marchetta (via anditslove)
“ringthis is for the no becoming yes
for scars becoming breath
for scraping away the rust and remembering how to shine
for the many beautiful things we do
for every song we’ve ever sung
for refusing to believe in miracles
because miracles are the impossible coming true
and everything is possible”—Andrea Gibson (via loveyourchaos)
"You are like me," you said I felt tangles reverse and straighten and my life’s cloth stretched farther yet emptier
I used to take pride in the way I was complex, cryptic, difficult to decipher I dislike being simple I want my unraveling to be arduous and complicated, show me how much you care How profound your unearthed discoveries will be
But I will ruin us both in the pursuit of preserving the intricate indentations you polished without touching the weathered beauty