.you're the recent lesson that i've learned

When it's over, it's over --
but it never feels over
when you just
haven't
gotten
over it
yet

If wishes were fishes...

And it's impossible for a human
to be a fish.
bits of "Get get get get get over it." by AVolatileCalm

.oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away

..And I, nearly extinct,
His three teeth cutting

Themselves on my thumb -
And the star,
The old story.

sylvia plath

.truly there would be reason to go mad were it not for music

♥

.we’re born into vanity, bones feeling everything

the walking dead

Someone once told me
that the grieving process
could be the kind of dance
that starts off slow,
quickens its pace,
and then sends you sprawling
through the air right when you thought
you were going to forget
to pirouette twice before bowing out.

that's right,

we're going to be lyrebirds,
and our first dance
could have been in Heaven
and our last will be
in some Australian forest.

bits of "lyrebird" by solaces

.it seems we drive forever but can never get away from here

veronique meignaud

Sometimes, you say, I wear
an abstracted look that drives you
up the wall, as though it signified
distress or disaffection.
Don’t take it so to heart.
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much
as being who I am. Maybe
it’s time for me to practice
growing old. The way I look
at it, I’m passing through a phase:
gradually I’m changing to a word.
Whatever you choose to claim
of me is always yours;
nothing is truly mine
except my name. I only
borrowed this dust.

"Passing Through" by Stanley Kunitz

.asymmetric, a sad novel by an anonymous poet

when parrots fly from his open mouth
... he tries to speak, repeating worthless,

worthless? I'm trying to love you

but I don't know how, & then
I start to remember—we are locked together
& pushing, pushing.

bits of "Worthless" by Nick Flynn

.bittersweet symphony (it never gets old)

fuckyeahchristinahendricks





♔♔♔

.a new name for this road

Landscape

When we were children, you didn’t care for words, you only filled pages with vertical lines. Beyond the page, the bite marks at the tip of your pencil, bare knees, a scrawny cat sleeping at your feet. We lived in the city and I thought you drew lampposts, telephone lines, the long, rusty rods scattered in construction sites. Your voice insisting, no, no, these are trees.

Conchitina Cruz

.look at this tangle of thorns

my veins
that keep shifting beneath the surface of my skin,
writing love letters to you in cursive.

look:
they say with my heavy bones my body will never
get off the ground, but that doesn't mean i close
my eyes when the sky is so beautiful it hurts.

my hands might someday turn into wings.

bits of "trilobite" by estallidos