“You write shitty poetry that
makes me feel nothing, but maybe
that’s just because none of it
is about me.
That’s all I wanted to say.
Sorry. You don’t deserve this,
but I want to be spiteful and
you’re my favorite person
to bring back from the dead.
So now that you’re here,
I’ll take my mouth and bury it
next to yours, pretend that
there wasn’t already
dirt in my teeth from the
last time I did this.
I don’t know what lonely is,
but it tastes like you.”
— Caitlyn Siehl, Bury (via alonesomes)
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!
When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.
There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame.
I would undress you in the summer heat,
and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.
— "Bleecker Street, Summer," Derek Walcott (via commovente)
“When death reached out its hand,
you should have cowered. When you felt the
flames of hell licking at your insides, you were not
supposed to draw closer to the fire.
I watched you disembowel the Earth, saw you pluck
flowers from your mother’s garden and gouge
your fingers into its open wounds,
trying to pry secrets out from the soil.
Everything green started to shrivel
and die when I entered the meadow, but you didn’t
flinch away; instead you kissed me voracious,
like I was something dark you’d tugged
out of reluctant soil.
I wanted your hands, still caked in dirt,
pressing into my naked back.
I thought you’d understand me. Both of us
wanting what we shouldn’t. I know your mother
must have warned you about gods like me.
Tell her I am not a selfish lover. Tell her how
I kneel at your altar and crush the berries
of your hips into wine. That I worship you.
That we spread each other open like flowers
blooming in the night. You wanted to see
what paradise looked like drenched in moonlight,
so I brought you home with me.
When you stood before the gates of hell,
all the beasts lowered their heads
and bowed at your feet.
Everything I have belongs to
you — my wife, my queen.
You are so much flesh and blood,
so much heaving, pulsing, breathing life.
You make the death in me tremble.
I am forever yours.”
— 'Hades' | Anita O. (via deeplystained)
“I believe pain breeds wolves
and joys give rise to moons.
We grow forests in our bones
so our memories can’t find us.
I believe we hide and haunt ourselves.”
— Pavana पवन
(Source: maza-dohta, via literarymiscellany)
“all of me
breathes you in […]”
— Margaret Atwood, from Yes At First (via violentwavesofemotion)
“I’ll move along the edges. Through the hinges where night gives in.”
— Rafael Castillo Zapata, from Providence (Angria Ediciones, 1995)
(Source: indigenousdialogues, via lifeinpoetry)
You are not the only heart
I have swallowed.
You are not the only hand
that feels love backwards.”
— Caitlyn Siehl, from Four in the Morning (via alonesomes)
(Source: wecouldbeheroes-loverswecouldbe, via alonesomes)
“I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can’t love and do nothing.”
— Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (via bestreadamerican)
“Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.”
— Doris Lessing (via wordsnquotes)
(Source: wordsnquotes, via literarymiscellany)
“I ate that apple because I was hungry.
I wanted what lay outside of Paradise,
a world without the burden of perfection.
Now you call all sinful women my sisters.
I say, let them claim their own damn sins.
The apple may not be perfect, but it’s mine.”
— From Eve Argues Against Perfection by Diane Lockward (via keepingupwiththekardacheyennes)
(Source: hush-syrup, via 5000letters)
“Do you love me enough that I may be weak with you?”
— Alain de Botton (via violentwavesofemotion)
(Source: 5000letters, via violentwavesofemotion)
“I am the wound and the knife!
I am the slap and the cheek!
I am the limbs and the rack,
And the victim and the executioner!
I am the vampire of my own heart.”
— Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal (via whyallcaps)
“Please die I said
so I can write about it”
— Margaret Atwood, “Their attitudes differ,” from Power Politics (via lifeinpoetry)
“your mouth is nothingness
where it touches me I vanish”
— Margaret Atwood, from Power Politics (via lifeinpoetry)