That secret that you know
but you don’t know how to tell
It fucks with your honor
and it teases with your head
There has been an explosion:
Over there, you see me unraveled.
And here, you pick up my limbs.
You can keep them and take every inch of me home
Frame my heart or put my lungs in a glass case.
Maybe open up a museum of the crude arts
I think these walls are empty
and all the stories are in caves
They whisper it out in echoes
telling tales we weave in wonder
These are the places I can hide in
These are places I can confide in
You stand at the end of a corridor
I’ll enter through your front door
To meet your mom maybe six years from now.
But still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now
mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.” —The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien (via obdormio)
In my life, everything I have stems from something I lost.
I hold memories of nights that shimmer still. And I traded those for the hope that things last.
I have a box of mistakes that I hang around my neck. And for each one, I gave away peaceful sleep.
I had these chances to save myself. Instead, I reached for the sins to slit myself.
Maybe I did it out of habit. My most acute reflex has been to push the knife deeper.
Tear stains on my blanket are like fresh tattoos, running ink.
Life’s always unfair
planes take people far away
so few bring them back
It was a night like any other
stealing away, running for cover
hiding our tracks,
ignoring the thunder
There were matches
but they all burned out
so you lowered your head
unto my chest
and lit your cigarette
from my flaming heart.