Pain is poetry.

Maybe I don’t believe in soul mates
(in us, in me, in you)
because if there was anybody destined
to be with me
it was you
and how badly could destiny have screwed up
to place explosives
side by side
face to face
because we were a disaster
waiting to destroy the other
and I guess you won
because I’m in pieces
and you still don’t care
Now, instead of picking me up
you scour the floor for yet
another piece of me
to place in your pocket

you’re still the only part of me I can’t bring myself to hate


(via words-and-teardrops)

i think that maybe
to you
i am just
a collection of
of coffee cake
half-baked dreams.

m.v., to you i am fragments.  (via findingwordsforthoughts)

I don’t know when it happened, or why it
happened. You just stopped. There were
no more phone calls in the middle of the
night when you couldn’t sleep, no more
texts that read, “I miss you.” The only time
you said I was beautiful, was when I asked
if I was. It’s not that I needed your validation,
I just missed hearing it. When you answered
the phone your voice sounded dull, the excuses
were, “I’m tired.” “I don’t feel well.” I never
knew the right words to say until after the
conversation ended, my talking just felt like
crunching leaves under your feet. You’d walk
over me subconsciously, I felt like I was the
gum on the bottom of your shoe. You’d get
rid of me faster than you’d let me stay.
I always held on a little too tight, a little too
long, I guess I was just waiting for the favor
to be returned. But your arms became
cemented to your sides, like walls around
your soul. I became the vines growing up
the bricks, trying to be tall enough to get a
peek of what’s behind them. I never was
tall enough, I never was good enough.
Soon enough the I love you’s just slipped
your mind, you forgot. I stopped noticing
how long it took you to reply, it became
our new normal. The nights we went without
talking, the mornings that went without the
good, the days we talked for five minutes, it
was all normal. You stopped. So, I’ll stop.
Or at least, I’ll try..

i.c. // "you stopped loving me" (via delicatepoetry)

I no longer fear loneliness. I fear that I’ve become too comfortable with being alone.

—Adel Dada (via adeldada)

Love letters.


My body doesn’t know who you are.
But my soul does.
Each night my soul whispers little secrets about you in my ear while I sleep.
Trying to tell my body where you are and what you look like in this life.
When I wake, my hands write down all my brain can remember about you.
Then my hands fold up these written secrets and my lips seal them with a kiss.
But I’d much rather kiss your body’s lips.

When asked if you believe in love


When asked if you believe in love,

ask if they believe in gravity.

Ask if their lips have ever been tied in so many knots

they forget where their frayed ends are.

Tell them about the time

you busted your lip when you were eight,

and had to get sixteen stitches,

how when the doctor…

My god
I want to hold you in the bathtub and wrap you in lavender and bubbles and every ounce of my love
I want to blast the 1975 with the lights down low and the moon hung high, “i love you, don’t you mind, don’t you mind?”
I want to unwrap the secrets I’ve kept like christmas gifts, I want to lift you higher than you’ve ever been, I want to grab the nearest pen and proclaim my enthrallment all over the walls,

I’ll face the wrath of the landlord

My god
Five drinks in and I’m over my head, searching for pictures of you and coming up short, they say you can’t catch the sun in a snapshot, and girl, is is true, no camera comes close to capturing you

There’s no lens
wide enough
for your rays.

I am as pathetic as they get, six drinks in and I don’t give a shit, I hear your voice when I close my eyes, I see your face and I’m not surprised, your eyes are the brightest I’ve seen,

Your memory
is suffocating
and rescuing me.

X drinks in and I can’t see the floor, the walls and the door are a blur but your face is still clear, I wish you were here

Until then

—Drink (m.n.g.)

(Source: palabrasquecantan)

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained into her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

—Anonymous (via starcrossedhatred)

"I am from Britain and think it is right that as a woman I am paid the same as my male counterparts. I think it is right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body. I think it is right that women be involved on my behalf in the policies and decision-making of my country. I think it is right that socially I am afforded the same respect as men. But sadly I can say that there is no one country in the world where all women can expect to receive these rights."

(Source: thefeministpress)