11:24 pm 23,999 notes
“Don’t worry,” I said,
“it’s not dying, but evolving,”
and it was like walking into
a mirror, slapped by the sheer
metaphor of it all. I hate
this tendency towards
how we can bury ourselves
beneath the broken pieces
of our own sky;
what can we learn
about life except that
we have it to lose?
God, I am tired of weaving
threads of light
when our sheets are so
heavy with the nights
that failed us.
And God, remember when
I still folded prayers
into my sleep?
When my sister asked me
we both turned smug,
thinking we knew
more than the other.
But in the end, I think
she did. That’s why
I’m the writer. Because when
our laughter struck
the silence of a room,
it answered a thousand questions
at once, filling in the gaps
that I still struggle to patch
with two languages,
two hands, and matches
It was enough, then.
How could she know so much
without knowing? And how
could I let myself forget
that once, I did, too? What we hid
from everyone but each other
and the backs of our eyelids;
the art of raising my voice
or her small hands
pulling my hair,
how else could we speak
of love without shaming it
with the word, which knows
of nothing but setting itself
10:54 pm 6 notes
3:26 am 3,593 notes
Call it a kiss, but
I want to dip my fingers
into a dark wine
and paint your lips red
and let it drip down your neck.
I want to cup your wet chin
and raise the goblet
of your fine wine mouth to mine.
I want to drink from you
until we taste the same.
— Peregrine (via oofpoetry)
12:44 am 4,100 notes
7:20 pm 3,206 notes
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard
as I hate myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
I’m new to this
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.
We are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
— Buddy Wakefield, “We Were Emergencies” (via oofpoetry)
1:43 pm 5,193 notes
I wish I knew history enough to use it
as a metaphor, and it’s like the night
I had to say sorry because I couldn’t
really kiss you. Even now what I remember
is the feeling of old heartbreak settling
into new wounds as the night tapped
on my window.
Today I thought about leaving my apartment
but it rained. Then it stopped. Then it rained.
And I cried twice to two different songs.
It wasn’t about the songs anymore. Do you
get what I’m saying? Why I couldn’t leave?
I don’t think there’s anything outside
these walls. When I think about the rain,
I remember only the word rain.
I write two kinds of poems:
ones from within,
when I give myself to the world,
and ones from without,
when the world gives itself to me
as I merely watch.
Funny how when I remember only myself
it is the only thing I cannot feel.
But looking up at the sky, I feel it tip
cosmos spilling into a mouth
that has forgotten the word mouth.
Now I know that I want to be everything
so that your name
cannot break me.
3:47 am 51 notes
There were days when it looked like love,
especially if you turned down the volume.
But even if you didn’t.
Bus rides asleep on each other’s
shoulders, sharing an ear-bud
plugged into a song
as if sharing a secret.
Afternoons where we stayed in
our pajamas and played video games
after he bought us twin bodega sandwiches
and remembered mine without the meat.
And while I look back
on the memories with equal, if not more
repulsion, I know that I wasn’t an idiot
to stay. That my heart invented
its own verb which meant To Love
The Dog Who Licks The Scar It Gave You.
On a dirty bar couch on Valentine’s Day
he said I would fight with you every morning
if it meant I could kiss you at night and at the time
it didn’t sound like the Codependent National Anthem
or a vending machine where you put in fury
and get out passion
or even like the things I read now
in pamphlets—the ones I thrust upon other women
like my own righteous gospel—
it sounded like the sweetest thing
he’d ever said to me. A poem
I could fold real small and carry
around in my locket, not noticing, for months
how it also kind of
— Megan Falley, “The Balance” (via oofpoetry)
3:36 pm 1,625 notes
This is the way we love. She said,
if there were more than one moon I wouldn’t know
what to do or where to begin.
If the fog never lifts, the city’s still
there. She said, some things only know
one way to hide. This is the way we love,
she said, with a shotgun
under the bed. Under your skin the bone is setting.
And her hand smoothed the skin.
And her hand set the bone.
— Brian Russell, “Shotgun Under The Bed” (via oofpoetry)
1:20 am 650 notes