The first time I left home
my bed was so lonely I
tucked books under my sheets.
I slept beside Bukowski and Atwood,
John Steinbeck and his wrath.
I pulled the covers up to my neck
to the books’ binding
not too taut
I made sure they had leg room,
slipped off their jackets at the
footboard so they could breathe (though aren’t they made of
oxygen? they are bark. they
are branch and stump.
I breathe them in. My
lungs expand.)
If anyone was to suffocate
smitten shallow stricken down
against the mattress springs and a
sheer top-sheet
better it be me
than the skillful-strung words
hampered up as
I grind down
I grasp and claw
kick and gnaw
for diversion,
some rest, respite,
some leg room for my amputated ends.

9:50 pm  1 note

“What do you consider most humane?—To spare someone shame.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

9:36 am  3 notes

If death is what you want, run from
fire.
If you want peace, run toward it. You think you’re
afraid of the dark, but every fear can be simplified by
a common denominator:
You.
Put out a fire with water, not fire. Opposites
attract. And if you outrun 
yourself, you’ll set a new PR while standing on a treadmill.
Like a hamster wheel.
Lose sight of what’s real.
You’ll have eyes in the back of your
head, none in the front.
But I’d rather light my bones up in flames than play hop-
scotch over burning embers.

3:32 pm  1 note

“Control? You’d auction your
soul for the one thing you’ll never get.
Accept it and get over it.
You and your shadow are tied with an umbilical cord-inseparable,
insuperable.
Like the strings of a puppet but you don’t conduct it.
Your shadow with you, just a matter of lead or
follow, leave or borrow.
But it has chains and a whip, to put it simply.
As simple as law. Not law set in stone. Not
one written by forefathers for a nation that can’t honor two.
Not laws made for the people, by the people,
against the people.
It’s just a law. Like, My lungs lean on
tree waste. On garbage.
Like, I love you.
Like, If it wasn’t for you I’d be dead.
I’d be hung and I’d be noosed.
I would dangle in my closet with my feet cocked and my back to the bedpost,
my shadow falling to the floor.”

12:46 pm  3 notes

“Infants plucked from blossomed
trees and
corpses
planted like flowers.
Fed from sunlight.
Bred from seeds.
Bleeding chloroplasts.
Their uptorn roots are fatal.
Their exteriors are equipped with thorn.
Naked
from tissue used
to wipe grief. Our
lungs deflate like vegetation.”

8:13 am

“I bought plum blossoms
more for the name
than for the color;
I buy lipstick that way, too.
In other words,
if it sounds like a poem,
I’ll take it.”

— Dorothea Grossman, “Untitled” (via larmoyante)

10:14 pm  1,029 notes

“I opened “You slut” and found church pews
I opened church pews and found desperation
I opened desperation and found music
I opened music and found my father
I opened my father and found my broken heart
I opened my heart and found you leaving me
I opened leaving and found “You are impossible to love”
I opened “Impossible” and found a scream
I opened a scream and found childhood.
I opened childhood and found a swingset
I opened swingsets and found first kisses
I opened first kisses and found scared mothers
I opened scared mothers and found my mother
I opened my mother and found a scream.”

— Let’s Start With The Insult, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)

(via commovente)

8:04 am  1,731 notes

Church bells ring on a college campus
and a high school is built across the street
from a graveyard. 
On the television
a commericial for lawn mowers
interrupts a special
on intergalactic orbits.
The narrator calls our’s a
freak planet; the only planet without
a climate from hell. 

11:06 am

“I wait for Art to create me.”

— Charles Bukowski

10:51 am  24 notes

“

I have said all that I needed to say.

Now all I want is
silence — for a white plate

to fall on the linoleum without
a sound,as it breaks itself into
hundreds of smaller
plates,

as if my life were a photograph, a
film still,

a run-on sentence with the
sound tuned down so low that not even
the dogs can pick up its frequencies.

All I want is what comes after
the storm, after cities have been
wiped out and there is only
an echo
leftover, a dial tone silence, a
front-door-slamming-shut-everyone
-looking-at-each-other-for-reassurance-
kind of silence.

The silence that comes

as my father sits by the fireplace, piling
logs over each other so high that
the entire chimney is in flames,

so quiet that you can’t hear my mother crying
over the phone, so quiet that you would never have
heard me say I love you

in the first place.

”

— “Silence,” Shinji Moon (via commovente)

6:42 pm  345 notes