Last night I had a dream that I ran away from home. I don’t remember why; I just remembering running and running and running until I found myself in a town of rough language and heady dialect; it was the middle of the night but no one seemed to be sleeping, and it was at that point that I realized I had no money, or anything besides the clothes on my back, for that matter. And I remember...
Once upon a time, I didn’t know you at all.
I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.– Frédéric Chopin
you and i are the shadows of skyscrapers. our souls shine dully, a skinny-legged Ophelia and a fidgety Hamlet. we stand beside lakes and our broken longing hums like rain forests at night. our innocence is white-hot and stark, and perhaps that will be our excuse. we know nothing of what we do not know, we are young, and shall never learn to wear our rue with a difference. we were doomed from...
There is a loneliness in your bones, like being bereft of marrow, and it makes you shaky and brittle but you can’t admit it, you’re waiting for someone who doesn’t disappoint you up close, someone brave eye to eye.
You are a beautiful little disaster.
I wish my teeth didn’t get stuck on words, I wish I could comfort people and I wish I could interest them, but even to myself I’m generally everyday, run-of-the-mill, maybe one that leaped a little too far into the deep end but devastatingly normal, still. Just another teenager with an endlessly suburban mind, living in the In-between, with no map of where I’m going, but...
There are some moments you keep in your pocket to look at later, like photographs, and when you line them up they tell a story, even if it’s one with no cohesive plot. Little memories that echo of the trueness life can contain, those are the ones worth remembering, and the ones that define you.
I descended the steps of this fire escape for a last time and followed, from...– Tennessee Williams
Anonymous asked: dont wash your mouth out....i like it dirty.
‘She’s one of those nice girls who never sleep.’
Gooseflesh And nervous laughter. Laughing again. Your breath smells like Marlboro Reds And each of your movements is Deliberate and quiet as a library. I’ve envied your ability To always be the person you mean to be There’s only one of you— And about twenty-five of me. We drive around town in your old sedan Looking for something to look for. It’s spring and I’m molting. When it...
The beautiful people are owned by everybody The ugly people are owned by everybody And the other people are owned by nobody. That’s why the movie stars and models In lipstick ads kill themselves The ugly people get married young and wear more lipstick Than they should And the other people are lost, unwarranted and unanchored; Out to sea. Here’s an anecdote for the...
Passion makes a person stop eating, sleeping, working, feeling at peace. A lot...– Paulo Coelho, Eleven Minutes
There’s nothing lonelier than turning the last page of a story you felt; I mean, how can you be expected to navigate real life so shortly after? ‘You’re done the stupid book, pick up the groceries’…’where have you been, I haven’t talked to you all day’… ‘c’mon, why won’t you come to the party tonight?’ And it’s...
I’m all acute angles and gangly elbows and immaturity, and it’s madness really, but I tried to be lovely for you.
There are some nights when your words are so firmly untranslatable from the language that is You So you spend the night roughly chewing on peppermints and staring so deeply at your hands you can recognize each follicle The sky is falling in and your chest is deflating—except you’re even more vulnerable And your thoughts are slippery like wet pearls and your metaphors lie flat...
I don’t know what to say I don’t know what to say I don’t know what to say I don’t know what to say, if only it was easy, like turning on a stove or setting dead trees on fire It’s just that I’ve felt so twisted up, lately. With real feelings, the kind that you’re supposed to write poems and stories about— but just leave me tangled and awake in my...
dyinginback: Everyone else is stupid, everyone else doesn’t know what it’s like to feel like this. Everyone else is content with the awful things they can just buy and happy with the other idiots they’ve surrounded themselves with. No one else has to pretend, pretend like their lives depend on it. No one else knows how to be alone anymore. No one else knows. No one else has to be their own...
Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they’ll leave you, sure. There’s no...– Louise Erdich
sleep through the mornings, eat breakfast at one, save bullets in between your teeth for later. the sun may burn you but the night asks questions: a somewhere owl ‘who, who’ and you see, i don’t know… wave from your afternoons and evenings in carriages, with snorting russet horses and let yourself feel beautiful, sometimes, or maybe not. it’s all in your head, like the way branches pitter patter...
clavicola: I’m no exotic beauty. My face won’t show up in museums long after my death, painted by a modern-day Picasso who fell in love with the jut of my chin and the plane of my cheeks. I have a simple face. A quiet face. One that whispers instead of speaks, coaxes instead of shouts. No one will fall in love with it. There are no astounding features. My eyes don’t make you want to whisk me...
I feel stilted and stunted, like I have shrunk in my waitings. Patience patience patience, the words will come, and if they don’t I’ll be a fish sprawled out on the shore, gasping and writhing, drying and hardening in the sun… The words had better come.
Two nights ago I had a dream I was pretty, and everything was easier, even walking, and people were listening to me in raptures, and suddenly I had worthwhile things to say.
clavicola: Havoc by Kristy Bowen For months, I couldn’t write. It was the loveliest vertigo, sort of like drinking tequila but without the hysterical blindness. My blackbirds were wingless, legless. They sputtered on the ground like firecrackers while you played flare gun, fire engine. I smelled like grass and rabbits, waited in the field for days for lightning, wanted that spark, the mailbox...
I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to...– John Keats
I sink into autobiographies past midnight, intertwining my fingers around themselves—I’m always twitching slightly, like I’m on the verge of tears at every moment—but here’s a story I always wanted to tell: I’ve always wanted to go to Paris because I think of it as a magical land where girls don’t twirl eagles’ feathers in their hair but ride upon...
We are never the strangers we imagine ourselves to be. The same thread weaves through all veins. The Byzantine Empire fell in its indivisible intricacies. We will, too. (I never cry, at funerals. Churches are too numbing. I only feel in the outdoors.) Do you see the patterns in the constellations? I have yet to. Quasi-stories of quasi-love, like radio voices and drawling pianos. ...
your thoughts are vague, but well-worded. brilliance defined, indeed. but i won’t remember them tomorrow.
I love things with a wild passion, extravagantly. I cherish tongs, and scissors;...– Pablo Neruda
entropicarus: so, i asked my smartest friend to come up with a verb that described me, and he chose “pull.” i asked him why, and he said something very interesting: “pulling is what you do; it’s how you accomplish things. you initiate your relationships—shallow and deep alike—by pulling people in with the way you care. you have this one face you make that’s ‘pull’...
I wonder if people ever look at me and think I’m someone else— And who would that person be?
Wake up, Meghan, wake up, darling… Fall out of love with dreaming
It was called “Redflower,” And the protagonist was herself. She had an aestheticism sadly out of place in this world, And brilliant hands. She had a wooden face, and had been in love once, With her college roommate, who requested a room change at the end of the semester. She survived on Rice a Roni and vodka, and on nights when she drank too much she always stood on her porch...
I experiment because I must see all things for myself rather than taking the majority’s view on it. Because here’s the thing about the majority: they may be the one’s that rule today, but tomorrow they’ll be dead and wrong, and I can only die knowing I’m right.
I didn’t mean to start this again, I didn’t mean to make you afraid. I’m not, I never have been. That’s why you worry. This morning I awoke in a leotard at the kitchen table, a cup of cold tea in my hand. I couldn’t fall asleep, because I had no fears to dwell on beneath closed lids. I looked down at my tea, then my thighs, and cried. Some things are worse than dying, smiling ruined girls whisper,...