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.

Imagine a room,
a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

Saying Your Names, Richard Siken (via chazkeats)

(Source: man-eatingcat, via theumbrellaseller)

This is the in-between, the waiting that happens in the space between one note and the next, the place where you confuse his hands with the room, the dog with the man, the blood with the ripped-up sky.

He puts his hands all over you to keep you in the room.

(Source: simonmunroe, via starspangledsextape)

You can’t just make me different and then leave. You can’t. You can’t change me and make my whole life centered around you, then leave.

—Looking for Alaska (John Green)

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

you cut it out

you can feel it in your belly, roiling and still 

like an abscess 

black rot seeping at the edges

but let’s not think of dark things

we are a field of rabbits, long and lean and rabid

see what I did there

this thin discourse, this argument of words

you twist and you mangle but they don’t change

words are just a reflection

mirrors don’t always tell the truth

(sell your soul, not your whole self) 

the clock’s winding fast, 

tick tick tocking like the splinters in my feet

we break and we wound and there’s still

I dream of drowning, 

of black water in my nose, in my lungs

I dream of it coiling out like smoke through my ribs

fear and anguish and violence are too often my only bedmates

but let’s not talk about what’s been done

what you-

let’s go back, to the rocks that burrowed under my skin,

or the laughter in my ears as they-

Its a pattern you see

a kaleidoscope,

repetitive and broken and 

we hold broken mugs and pretend we still have tea

there are too many bruises I can’t explain 

you took all the space out of me 

there’s nothing left 

broken buildings don’t get mortgaged 

there are rabbits in a field

until there aren’t anymore

(we all know what we do with disease)

This morning I woke up and decided to tell the truth.
I am not okay, and I don’t think that any of us are,
and I don’t think that we need to apologize for it.
Friends call to make plans and I say yes,
instantly regretting it. If it’s not alcohol,
it’s getting high, it’s music so loud my bones hum.
It’s driving around and making promises with our pinkies
or throwing up on the side of the street or kissing
each other so violently that we’re swallowing hair,
wisdom teeth. It’s loneliness so deep in my stomach
it’s in my womb and kneecaps. I’m writing this because
I fucking want you to feel something. I want you to
sweat me out like a fever. Okay, okay, listen:
I want to be a new girl but it’s these old habits.
We’re all so warm and feeling and I can’t quite
get this taste out of my mouth. We fling love around
like we don’t expect to get it back. It feels like
only yesterday my mother was kissing my scrapes
and bruises. Only yesterday I was learning to tie my shoes,
snap my fingers, be trusted with the delicate task
of dressing myself. I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.
Empty out your chest and get ready to run.

Kristina Haynes, “May 2014” (via fleurishes)

(via fleurishes)