scribbling my heart unto the skin of your eyes

I spin around words and sentences, swim through thoughts and pretenses and under all that muck and streams of plastic consciousness, there is me.

where is my mind (in the bed under the dark)

I once thought my veins were tree roots deep in earth and mulch, far too close to mold and green death to be worth the cost of pumping in this shell of a hollow body

look you don’t understand dissonance until you have to fight with your flesh, the plump pull of your musculature, the ringing discourse of your mind. 

There is no battle more hardwon than a match done with your skin and blood as chess pieces. 

but maybe you have made lesser mistakes

you carry your fragility like a shield, like a piece of glass you hold in your hands, unashamed and unapologetic when the world would rather you hide your head and weep 

you have never been one for cheap tears

(if you cried for every fallacy your eyes would dry up and the water would shrivel from your veins) 

funny how it always goes back to the highway of circulatory under your skin, perhaps you have spent too many days on hospital beds where the sharp bite of metal were the only things that made sense, the soft caress of cotton around your wrist, 

today breathing feels too much like a chore you have yet to be done.

and how do you explain your rapid breathing when someone touches you from where you can’t see?

the pump of blood pushing the oxygen out of lungs like poison

when your covering is keeping you from escaping, this thin well worn leather, tanned from the hours kept curling in the dark 

there is nothing you know better than the touch of fear that hides between the crevice of your blue blood

maybe tomorrow would be a better day

I looked for the way
the footprints seemed like
teeth taking bites in
the snow, like the way
my fingers gripped into
your skin when I begged
you not to go and I
looked for the way the
wind knew which hats
to steal and which
children would crush them
in their back bicycle
wheel and I looked for the way
you held the truth in
your cheeks, always
hidden under your tongue
but never in the words
that you speak and
I looked for the way
that you looked at me
because I knew that
you saw but you never
saw the way that I see.

adhd by k.p.k (via towritepoems)

It’s not the kind of sadness to where you cry all the time, but more of like the sadness that overwhelms your entire body, leaving you heart aching and your stomach empty. Making you feel weak and tired. And yet, you can’t even sleep cause the sadness is in your dreams too. It’s almost a sadness you can’t escape.

"There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me."  — Jonathan Safran Foer

(Source: herzdieb, via stereksextape)

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

—Wild Geese, Mary Oliver (via havisham)

(via theumbrellaseller)

More and more I found myself at a loss for words and didn’t want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.

—The Paris Wife (Paula McLain)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via wordsthat-speak)

Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it’s gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth.

Azra T (via flawlez)

(via silfrsundr)