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Showing posts from April, 2013
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I. I’m terrified of what we are, what we might become, what will happen if things don’t work out. I am completely aware of my feelings for you and your feelings towards me, but I do not know what I want. I want you, but I don’t, or I can’t or won’t allow myself to give into something that is inevitable. I’m so confused, but I am okay with this, whatever “this” is. It’s you I am worried about. If I keep you waiting for so long will you get tired of waiting? Move on? I am honestly surprised you haven’t gotten fed up and left yet. I know it is unfair, selfish even, for me to do this to you, but I don’t know what to do.What do you want? That’s a stupid question because I know what you want, but I don’t know if I can handle declining. Right now I don’t feel ready. When will I ever be ready? It seems like it has been an eternity of endless waiting on your part, but I just am not ready. I am terrified of round two. The first time it ended in a mess. The many nights of pouring m…
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— Charles Bukowski


and then there are some who
believe that old
relationships can be
revived and made new
again.
but please
if you feel that way
don’t phone
don’t write
don’t arrive.
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sometimes,
all
we
really
need
is
for
someone
to say,
"i
believe
in
you."
a beautiful,
          t / r / a / g / e / d / y
a walking,
         m / e / s / s

but, no one notices her cut up      w / r / i / s / t / s she is begging, pleading, for an amend. if we just noticed, her broken soul. then maybe we'd save her, before she caused her own d / e / a / t / h
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I believe in a lot of things.

I believe in moments, and kisses, and tea.
I believe in books, and people, and art.
I believe in the sunrise and the sunset
and all the moments in between.
I believe in the fact that we are all made
up of stardust and we have a part of the
universe within us.
sometimes, i even believe in love.

it's a shame really, because I believe
in all those things but I don't believe
in myself.


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I’m afraid of
a lot of things,
but mostly,
most sincerely,
I am afraid of
being completely
unraveled by you,
and you finding nothing
you want in here.
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“Nobody really owns anything. We give back our bodies at the end of our lives. We own our thoughts, but everything else is just borrowed. We use it for a while, then pass it on. Everything. We borrow the sun that shines on us today from the people on the other side of the world while they borrow the moon from us. Then we give it back. We can’t keep the sun, no matter how afraid we are of the dark. We borrow our food. What we eat becomes fertilizer that goes back into the earth and gets turned back into food. Everything is borrowed. Once I realized that, I stopped worrying about how I would survive. I didn’t need to have anything, I just needed to borrow.”
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la douleur ne s’arrête jamais

I’m too tired to exist anymore.
No one can be sustained forever on coffee, the thin crescent moon, and ink.
I’ve always been weak. I rely on the undependable; the split second, narrow chances, and the loves that slip out from between our fingers.

I take the things that don’t mean anything at all, and tuck them in between the spaces of my ribs: the wilted red carnation, the number 9, and your words.
Some people prefer to remember the small things, like the way yiyr drunken lips tasted, or the way I looked that chilly November morning, on days wecouldn’t remember where we’d kicked off their shoes the previous night, on days I couldn’t even remember if I needed a sleeping pill to wake up the next morning.

I can still feel the roughness of the edge of your jaw and your fingers in the curve of my side, and the cold of washed out wooden floorboards on my feet and the drowsiness of your body next to mine and so many other things that are impossible to describe in the tangible.

Ev…
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when she embraced the sea I supposed she didn't think what would become of her tear-soaked body, and how her flesh would be stripped from her bones. she was lost in the feeling of the absolution she was about to receive. I suppose all her mistakes were erased with the waves that day.
Abortion seems to be the only medical procedure that people want to deny you based on how you got in that situation.

Drove drunk, got in an accident and need an organ transplant? No problem.

Messing around with a gun, accidentally shoot yourself in the leg and need surgery? Of course.

Smoke tobacco for most of your life and need treatment for lung cancer? Yep.

Climb a tree, fall out and break your leg? We’ll fix that right up.

Have sex and get pregnant when you don’t want to be? YOU GOT YOURSELF INTO THIS SITUATION AND YOU DESERVE NO MEDICAL HELP OR COMPASSION! THIS IS YOUR FAULT AND YOU WILL DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES!
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I thought of writing.
But what would I have said?
I'd long since stopped writing, real writing, my own writing. No words ever came out anymore. I'd lost the sense of first person, the sense of being in the world that writing requires. I guess I had nothing to say for myself.
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I worry (a lot) when I think (of other girls) about how they (shine) sparkle and radiate beauty and about how I could be (brighter)
(and) nothing hurts worse than thinking about not being with (you) my love, my heart because I know you (deserve the) best, you are my (sun), moon and stars
“I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and I’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you.”
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— Warsan Shire, “You Were Conceived”

“On the night of our secret wedding
when he held me in his mouth like a promise
until his tongue grew tired and fell asleep,
I lay awake to keep the memory alive.

In the morning I begged him back to bed.
Running late, he kissed my ankles and left.
I stayed like a secret in his bed for days
until his mother found me.

I showed her my gold ring,
I stood in front of her naked,
waved my hands in her face.
She sank to the floor and cried.

At his funeral, no one knew my name.
I sat behind his aunts,
they sucked on dates soaked in oil.
The last thing he tasted was me.”

“We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright.”

- Ernest Hemingway
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writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
or laughing
through written words alone
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This is how you lose her.

You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.

You must remember when she forgets.

You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which…
I’m the crazy girl you’ve been looking for.
I’m the one on the phone that doesn’t let you go.
I’m the one who calls and cries.
I am locked in a house of flames.

The one who hears drums in her head. I lock you out and let you in. I let you in and lock you out.

I’m waiting for them to find me.
I’m waiting for the day when someone else calls the shots.
My rape paper dress on fire. I’ve pushed this as far as it can go. My beauty comes from collision.

Now it’s out of my hands. I’m writing this in the dark so no one can see. I’m walking in circles trying to make a spiral to lift me up. I’m playing piano with a couple of ghosts they never say anything they just listen. I start with water I end with the moon. It’s the same every day. In my dreams I can fit in the car. In my dreams the bricks talk back. In my dreams it’s always twilight and I walk so slowly no one notices me move. In the morning it’s over. At night it starts again. I fall slowly. I never get up. It’s not a prison.…
Date a girl who has been crazy. Because most likely, she wouldn’t be so much again that it would be too much to take in. Date a girl who had a series of mental breakdowns in her teens, maybe an overbearing biological father whose face she can’t remember. Date a girl who has ran away mid-argument with her lover, stood at the edge of a cliff, wiggling her toes at the view. Date a girl who’s been in love, madly and passionately, who’s old lover loved her, too. Because you’ll want to date a girl who knows how to love, without the painful adolescence and severe naivete.

Disregard her spontaneous moments of silence, the fleeting moments of maybe-awkward but really, she’s just happy with current clarity. Date a girl who has taken a string of exotic, unrewarding lovers. Maybe-not fucked the entire world but has been in all ugly remarks muttered under breaths of people who just did not know or take the time to. Date that girl because when she blinks, her eyelids are heavier and …

Soul Mates

I don't know how it is you are so familiar to me- or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are.

How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before- in another time, a different place0 some other existence.
There are two types of waiting.

There's the waiting you do for something you know is coming, sooner or later - like waiting for the 6.28 train, or the school bus, or a party where a certain handsome boy might be.

And then there's the waiting for something you don't  know is coming.
you don't even know what it is exactly but you're hoping for it.
you're imagining it and living your life for it.
that's the kind of waiting that makes a fist in your heart.
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Lessons on Loving a Writer

- If she has loved you, you will undoubtedly find yourself in some piece of prose, some book, in some dusky shelf. Do not wipe away the dust from the pages, do not read on, you’ll only disappoint yourself. The image of you she finds, is not the one you will always like.
- She will take days away from you, quiet solitary moments where her eyes look like glass. You will ask what is for dinner and she will touch your face with ink-stained fingers, she will forget to reply. Your lips will come away blue. Lick away the paint. Be patient, do not urge with your hips. Do not switch on rock music.
- Expect venom. She will use her words as weapons, she will not raise her voice, she will not curse, instead she will slay you with words as quiet as dusk creeping over country roads. Expect Shakespearian insults, curled upper lips. Expect ‘you sir, are somewhat tedious.’
- She has perfected the expression of indifference, she will use it against you if you have irritated her. (It is quite…
“And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
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"I want a trouble-maker for a lover; blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame. Who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate. Who burns like fire on the rushing sea."

it's funny because you meet these people and they make you laugh and they give you hope and they make you realize that there is so much more to life and when you're with them, you forget how empty you felt before.
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it is so hard to talk when you want to kill yourself.
that's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental complaint- it's a physical thing, like it's physically hard to open your mouth and make the words come out. they don't come out smooth and in conjunction with your brain the way normal people's words do; they come out in chunks as if from a crushed-ice dispenser; you stumble on them as they gather behind your lower lip. so you just keep quiet.
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And smiles turn into laughs and laughs turn into kisses- and before you know it, the days turn into weeks- and weeks turn into months. and you'll find yourself forgetting what it was like before they were in your life.

" I don't know why you are so sad, but I can take your sadness like pills each morning just to keep your happy."

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there are reasons I think about that haunt me - this is not an obsession, I just choose to think about you, and you and me - very late at night, reasons why why didn’t you have just turned around at the train station; why couldn’t you have been there when I visited the place you said I should have gone that sultry summer afternoon; why don’t you just come running back to me? Would you see me now? I had a dream, as always, and you were there, of course, but this wasn’t beautiful. This was your funeral, and there were all these angelic faced, supermodel worthy girls by your coffin, decked out in black satin with white handkerchiefs -one for every time I wished of you- and they sneered at me before they closed the box that would never be home to you: who are you, girl? I was screaming through my veil, and there was a church even though you never told me if you ever believed in a god: I loved him first. And I really did. And most days get petrified to the bone wondering that I …
I’m so tired of this small-town
and it’s small-town hurricane run-
ins; bitter-sugar-spun-smiles and sabre
bones; wakeless ghosts and tabloid hearts. Take me away I
beg, take me away, take it
all away to someplace where
I don’t know anyone (somewhere
I don’t have to know
anyone)
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When you fall in love with a boy,
you fall in love with the curves of his shoulders.

the angles of his collarbones.
you fall in love with the

colours of his eyes and the
softness of his lips.

you fall in love with his
cheekbones, you fall in love with every
eyelash, every freckle.

you fall in love with everything.
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You spent so long wondering and asking "How can anyone love me?" and you counted your flaws but didn't have any fingers left for strengths
and whens omeone finally said they loved you all you could ask was "Why?"
instead of telling them that you loved them, too.
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Running and Leaving: Maybe A Story of You and of Me

i.
She left but without a goodbye.
Goodbyes are for people who were going to be missed.
Wispy, heart intangible.
Goodbye girl.

ii.
Hope.
He had no idea how much hope he gave.
Hope for the fucking hopeless, fire boy.

iii.
One two three one two three / you know this mambo don’t you baby? / One two three one two three / dance to this beat (because at the end of the day you are golden while I am cardboard painted gold.)
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I want to string all these feelings and memories and hurt and broken glows of street-lamps I’ve waked under thinking of all this, and shove it in your face, all the way down your throat. Ingest it. Feel the same way I did, all empty and shred apart, my organs hanging from power lines while the crows look for my heart. (And I’m sorry I can’t hate you because you’re golden glitter and honey-brown eyes and somber smiles and everyfuckingthing I’ve ever wanted to be.)
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11:11am

I would steal the stars and hang them up for you
I am on the edge of a cliff. You are here and you are smiling. You aren’t pushing me off this cliff yet. I wait for it. The tide below roars and white crests at its tips. You are still smiling and you haven’t pushed me into the blue below yet. Maybe you don’t hate me. You never wanted me to die. Maybe just because you never wanted me to die doesn’t mean that you cared, you ever thought I meant something to you.
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Most of the time
I try to convince myself
that the future is yet to come;
but someone should remind me:
yesterday was once future too;
tomorrow soon will be past,
and I still haven't moved from here.
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When I can't sleep at night-
I stare at the empty side of my bed,
and wonder about the things
I would tell you,
if you were laying next to me.
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