a gaggle of writers & writing
desire
she could clearly remember the feeling of her fingers slowly
curling over his chest like a possessive animal laying claim to
prey.
she craved and wanted him more than a heroin addict dreamed
of the needle stabbing through the thin membrane, wanting the
rush.
"Your love
Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger,
Only to someone who has the valor and daring
To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife
Then weave them into a blanket
To protect you."
-Hafiz (via likeafieldmouse)
The mortality rate
People died again.
It seemed to be such
a boring and monotonous
cycle that never changed,
yet people esteemed it
to unfathomable proportions.
unanswered
I remember that I read in some long-forgotten
book that a broken boy (literally and figuratively) asked
his significant other, who was a beautiful girl, if
she lusted for him or if she
loved him, and I remember that
she didn’t answer his question. And at that
age I never understood the implications of a
broken boy asking a whole girl that.
i fell in love with a boy
who picked flowers instead
of arguments and had no
time for bad things
because he so carefully
curled himself
against them.
you were summer recklessness
but you always had these
two rules : stay with me
and dont become a ghost
again.
(Source: birdy--willow)
i don’t know what to tell you
other than the fact that a giraffe’s
heart weighs 22 pounds and that
somebody once told me when
flies fall in love, their entire brain
is rewired to only know loving each
other. when one of them dies, their
memory becomes blank. i hope you
never think about anything as much
as i think about waking up next to
you during a windstorm at 5 am.
(Source: likeawritingdesk)
"And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long."
-Sylvia Plath (via sophistickitty)(Source: creatingaquietmind)
"
When the apocalypse comes
and all the windows are shattered
and the car tires have melted into the pavement,
once all the schools and hospitals
and skyscrapers have folded in on themselves
and the last street lamp has wilted like a starving flower,
I will still want to fuck you.
We both know I can’t handle stress well.
I’m anxious, claustrophobic, and things between us
haven’t always been easy — you nitpick, I’m stubborn,
and we have been fighting
over pointless things
like directions,
how you never take me anywhere nice anymore.
I saw the way you smiled at that poet
and her pomegranate metaphors SUCKED.
But sweetheart,
when a meteor crashes through
our kitchen ceiling, I will not panic.
When the locusts envelop the neighborhood
and our shower water thickens to blood,
I promise not to bite my nails.
I won’t even get angry when you don’t answer your phone —
even as the pavement begins to crack and spew like a rotten egg,
you will not get 47 missed calls in 4 minutes
(*even though we both know it’s possible).
When the news anchor finally tells us the truth —
that there is no hope — I won’t even thinking about
joining the angry mob outside
our burning apartment building.
Baby, no.
I will put on my least flammable negligee
and I will find you.
I will crawl to you across this curdling parking lot of a city,
lick your body new again like my tongue
is God’s hand trying to erase and recreate the earth.
For 6 days straight, we will be
what makes the sidewalk blister.
Day 1: in the beginning,
I will find you, pull you into me.
Day 2: we will make the earth
and the sky jealous.
Day 3: I want you to fuck me
bent over a crumpled taxi.
4: in the graveyard of a strip mall.
5: on the steps of the capital,
in every store, on every mattress that isn’t on fire.
This world is a melting candle
we’re only using for foreplay.
Day 6: You may think I’m in denial,
that I am avoiding the bigger issue here
but you didn’t even look at me
the last time you said I love you
and, shit, if it didn’t feel like the end of the world.
I know this can’t be healthy
(pretending everything is on fire), but baby,
we could be the most beautiful wreckage
in all this smoke.
When the apocalypse does come,
I will rebuild our city with my tongue.
I will suck this world’s ashes from your fingers.
I will refuse to let the fires of this hell
be the only thing that makes us sweat.
When the apocalypse comes,
so will we.
(Source: commovente)
I once fell in love with a boy who understood the depth of which I cared for him, yet he never reciprocated. He was weaning himself off of Adderall, which he had taken for the most of his short life, and here I was, trying to love a broken human being while being broken myself. And it ended in a maelstrom of hurt and shattered imagery that we had built up of each other, refusing to see the flaws that were deeply ingrained in our character, hiding away our honest presumptions, failing to disclose our deepest, esoteric enigmas.
We fell apart.
why do i even try to compete with all of the other people that exist in my life, that function as separate beings from myself, that are more of individuals than I could ever be?
darwin’s theory of evolution leaves me floundering behind the rest. i cannot evolve to save myeslf as everyone moves forward and as i sit here, unable to adapt to any new setting or situation.
i am a dying breed, the last of my kind. i cannot change. i cannot survive. i will not survive. i will not live. i will die at my own hands.
i am sitting here, waiting for my salvation that i know will never come. though the final blow shall come from myself, i am already stumbling.
i am balanced precariously on the brink of sanity and insanity, each teetering over the edge.
i am falling.
