12:58 pm 81,145 notes
dear night: i want to paint my eyelashes blacker
than they are, a black you can remember.
shifting night, bleeding light, I fear you.
i saw the moon messy and kissed and sweating
clouds. smudge and shadow. so close to touch.
december night. there’s a wind.
these are the wrong maps, bury them.
it is hot here, air swells, skin swells.
light moves beneath water.
rinsed moon. clear and sharp and sweet.
cutting the night. its affliction.
slice me whole. i’ve felt these edges
before. before, always a tree to
hide behind. a roof to climb.
a whisper to break in the dark.
never this open, the night.
never this smothering.
never such a yawn.
what was so flat and clean, now full and ripe
to give in the mouth—
why can’t everything
dear night: i want to shout louder
than i have been, a shout you can remember.
8:54 pm 9 notes
— "Dust," Dorianne Laux
8:48 am 941 notes
11:24 pm 182,124 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 5,524 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 5,398 notes
7:20 pm 5,692 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 5,804 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