-
Then tell me what to do.
Kiss my forehead. Turn me over and rub my back. Read to me and tell me stories when I’m too tired to talk back. Tuck me in. Let me curl my toes around your ankles when I’m cold. Tell me I look nice. Carry me around when you feel like it. Tell me I’m friendly. Tell me I’m pretty. Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m not fucked up.
-
I like pressing escape when my computer’s not even on and the room next door is loud. I’m hoping one day a trap door will open up in the floor of my room.
Until then, every time it gets late I’ll think of London and being there in early summer and how different it was. How insanely different life continues to be.
-
Trying to find your silhouette behind cigarette smoke. We’re in college and I lost my way, sweetie. Lost my way.
I wish I had drunken ramblings so I’d have an excuse to ramble. Drunkenly, even. I don’t.
I want to figure out how to say how much I need the late nights by myself. Not with her. I don’t know her. I want to sit here and I want to cry because everything is gone, and then I want to see you and find out where everything is again. I want to remember every fucking night I spent in high school at three in the morning listening to music and crying and wishing I had a you to find out where everything was and never finding anything and god it hurt.
Angst isn’t limited to high school. I’m not sure it’s called angst any more, though. I’m almost halfway there to midlife crisis. I wonder where the transition is? If we can find the transition maybe we can put a name to this place I’m trying to find you in.
I have no excuse for such late nights and down-turned mouths. I haven’t even been drinking or listening to sad music. Silent static headphones and the girls next door. Just that.
I hear it’s become quiet outside. I hear there are crickets. I hear there’s rain. I hear it’s a new day again.
-
I’m tired of my own silent songs about seeing and feeling. Tired. Let me go.
-
Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads.And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it’s not deep enough
to drink the moon from.— Denise Levertov, Adam’s Complaint (via grammatolatry)
(via clavicola)
-
She is touching you and she means no harm.
You know this.
[But she is touching you].
Touching
you don’t know what to make of it
she
grabs you by the neck and
[harmless?]
proceeds to take your life and give it back.
Two seconds. flat.
[it might have been longer.]
[eons, even.]
She is touching you and your breath comes faster.
You come faster.
[This is not about sex.]
This is about your fear of not knowing what to do
when the day comes that you can’t be the strongest.
This is about your fear of losing control.
This is about your fear of passivity.
This is about your fear.
-
blearghblearghbleargh
I am going to sew together pictures of my past and it will be
oh such a beautiful timeline
and you will see the stitches and even the bad ones
and the ribs at awkward angles
striking out into the air like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be
you will see the stars
and breathe the air surrounding laughing crying faces
you will almost touch the way i felt on my birthdays
hear the transitions of time
and i am going to keep sewing
sewing
sewing
the ribbon of my stories growing longer each minute of each day.
-
Anne Sexton.
Song For A Lady by Anne Sexton
On the day of breasts and small hips/ the window pocked with bad rain. rain coming on like a minister/ we coupled, so sane and insane./ We lay like spoons while the sinister/ rain dropped like flies on our lips/ and our glad eyes and our small hips.
“The room…
-
Robert Krut(Source: clavicola)
-
pour me out onto concrete
and watch me sizzle electric.
