You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,
I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.
I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.
I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
— Small, Lucas Regazzi (via coffeeurlgirl)
"Last night I heard
crying on the floor above me and I
spilled ink onto my journal but with
trembling hands I continued writing.
At three am the sobbing became so
loud and it seemed no one else
could hear it because it didn’t stop until
three forty-seven, when all of a sudden
the audible teardrops became
fainter until a silence
wrapped around me and I almost
I’ve heard that there are more suicides on
Mondays than any other day of the week.
It’s now five twenty, (the sun should be tapping at my
window in an hour or two.)
I am afraid.
I wish to hear crying.
God, let me hear crying again.
— C’est la vie: Monday Blues (via debilitating)
"Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
Jack Gilbert, Falling and Flying.
"This is the last poem that will
ever fashion it’s backbone from
the hollow echo of your name.
What is gone is dead. Ok.
I can’t keep aching for you.
Last week I was in Montana.
The night sky is so big there it
swallows you. There was a time
I would have looked up at the stars
and thanked you for hanging them.
All day long I’ve been thinking
I’m safer alone.
— Clementine von Radics, “Montana” (via petrichour)
(Source: clementinevonradics, via theperksofbeingapsycho)
"Here is the skin that you said you loved
draped over the back of the chair in the kitchen.
Here are the teeth. Here is the sternum, the
clavicle, the fibula. Here are the angel bones
laid out on top of the dresser like antique
jewelry. Here are the earlobes, the knobbly
elbows, the beauty mark near my temple
that always got a moan out of you. Here are
my thighs, my femur. All ten toes, all ten
fingers. My pubic bone, preserved and
wrapped in a velvet bag. Your name on the
tag. Your name on everything. Here is
the body that loved you. Here is the
heart, bloodied and wanting. Here are
those drunk voice mails, the sober texts.
Here is your promise of staying. Here
is the lonely hum in my brain where your
name used to be. Here is my spine. Here
is all the hollow. Here is all the longing. Here
is the heavy tongue, the scratchy vocal
chords. Here are all of the I love you’s.
Here is the shocking wreck of it all. Here is
how you were closer to me than my bones,
my skin. Here is the quiet city, your empty
side of the bed. Here is the empty. Here is not
knowing whether you loved me or not. Here is
the poem that can’t save us. Here.
— Kristina H., “On Missing You” (via suiicune)
(Source: fleurishes, via theperksofbeingapsycho)
William Butler Yeats, “The Mermaid”
(Source: aseaofquotes, via theperksofbeingapsycho)
"You want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘Wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ You think I’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? I’ll swallow you whole.
— Warsan Shire (via durianquotes)
(Source: durianseeds, via durianquotes)
“Do not fall in love
With people like me.
people like me
will love you so hard
that you turn into stone
into a statue where people
come to marvel at how long
it must have taken to carve
that faraway look into your eyes
Do not fall in love with people like me
we will take you to