When I haven’t been kissed
in a long time, I create civil disturbances,
then insult the cops who show up,
till one of them grabs me by the collar
and hurls me up against the squad car,
so I can remember, at least for a moment,
what it’s like to be touched.
Jeffrey McDaniel, “When A Man Hasn’t Been Kissed” (via lifeinpoetry)
The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful […] Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (HarperPerennial, 1981)
I don’t chase people anymore. I learned that I’m here, and I’m important. I’m not going to run after people to prove that I matter.
EY (via dressrosas)
“I can’t handle this,” he told her.
But something in his expression screamed:
“I can’t handle you.”
And she thought then, that perhaps all relationships were just a case of who gave up first. And her pride couldn’t decide which was worse: giving up when you had promised them not to, or waking up to find that they had given up on you.
At first glance, I mistook your name for Khaleesi. I don’t remember the first poem I read of yours, but I remember the fire that engulfed my skin. You are a reminder that my body is allowed to be a match and my voice is able to burn louder than the mouth of a dragon.
You are a reminder that has helped me understand that if you unwrap my body, it is more than what meets the eye. My veins are woven with my lungs and veins and heart and poems to let everyone and myself know that I am not a mistake or an apology. I am a statement of what it means to be alive.
You are right, my voice will crack, but it is not broken. I will fall, but I will not shatter. I will clench my fists and bruise my insides if that is the price that I must pay for feeling too much.
I am a reflection of beauty and fear, but you taught me that you must not forget that although you will spit your teeth out and bite your jaw, it is okay to wrap yourself around the sky and cry out to the moon and watch as your skin oozes charcoal.
I am a statement. I am not an apology. I am a kaleidoscope.
What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise.
Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris (via theegreywolf)
And may your bones
sing, no longer with pain, but with roses.
Moira Egan, “Vespers” (via petrichour)
You had to stand there saying:
I love you, I love you, I love you
we’re soul mates, you and I, but that doesn’t mean it works
that doesn’t mean it works
that means my soul can’t bear to be without yours
but that doesn’t mean it works
"You Couldn’t Just Leave?" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)
…choose to believe in your own myth
your own glamour
your own spell
a young woman who does this
(even if she is just pretending)
Francesca Lia Block, from How to (Un)cage a Girl (via mirroir)
Show me your worst,
And I will show you
How I love you
Just the same.