- Y.Z, A trick of the three o’clock light (via rustyvoices)
- Haruki Murakami (via lace-and-bows)
Do you ever crave to be touched? Even in the most innocent way. I want someone to just hug me for a very long time or someone to lean against/ someone to lean on me. Maybe while sitting or laying next to someone just to have our legs, arms, or feet touching would be nice. I think that when you’re lonely for so long you constantly want to feel someone against you just as a constant reminder that you’re not alone.
a series of poems
i still visit your grave, i place flowers every month,
i hope they intertwine with your soul and blossom into something beautiful but not even as close to as breathtaking as you,
it was supposed to be me, cars are nothing but gasoline fueled weapons.
i hope you’ve been doing well,
you hid a map in your smile and a compass in your embrace,
i had only closed my eyes for a brief moment before you left,
when the tsunami of tears swept over us i held you close,
but i could never keep you warm, so you found safe haven on separate shores, i hope one day tides will bring you back to me, i’m still in love with you.
mother please don’t cry, i’ve been shining so brightly for you, if you ever feel like you’re breaking with every word, hold your arms around me, look to the stars, i am the galaxies, i am the universe, and i am shining so brightly for you.
i am sick of being invisibly chained by my own mind, every time somebody tries to touch me or my thoughts i can only imagine every fucking scenario of them taking my life, i am sick of being riddled by anxiety, i am sick of thinking every person i am not comfortable with wants to spit acid down my throat, i am fucking sick, don’t touch me, please don’t touch me."
"This is the story of my grandfather:
When he was nineteen years old,
his right hand was crushed in a printing press.
He was supposed to lose the hand,
but a young doctor saved it.
Just in time for the war.
This is the story of the war:
My grandfather repaired tanks.
Behind the front lines,
away from the cameras
he’d pull pieces of dead men
from the machines and send
the machines back out to the field.
This is the story of the war, a decade later:
Back then, you didn’t talk about depression.
There was no such thing as PTSD.
When my uncle, age seven
asked him who won the war,
my grandfather said “Nobody.”
This is the story of my grandfather, the machinist:
I have a newspaper from 1981.
A story about the Nobel Prize for Physics.
A photograph of the winner, a Harvard man,
standing by his machines.
This man is not my grandfather.
Beneath the photo, my grandfather has written
"I designed and built almost everything in this picture."
They worked together for ten years.
but my grandmother says the physicist
never even remembered his name.
If you asked that Harvard man,
there would be no story of my grandfather,
just a pair of disembodied hands
This is the problem with stories:
They have to leave something out.
The editor cuts a line and someone’s face fades;
the editor says two hundred words or less, and suddenly
a whole family goes missing.
The spotlight isn’t about the light, it’s how
it makes everything around it dark
My grandfather’s face is erased from every story.
The machines survive and the man who made them doesn’t.
The machines make the photo, but their maker is out of frame.
But we choose where to point the camera.
We choose how to tell the story.
We can choose which clothing the hero wears.
I could tell you this is a story about a soldier.
I could tell you this is a story about the blue-collar man
but really, this is just the story of my grandfather.
I never met him
But my family tells me his name.
I know that name might only live in this moment.
That there are other stories with greater stakes.
But still, I will tell you his name.
I will repair this old machine.
I will let my grandfather live again
because I could not know him while he was living.
Once, when he was younger than I am now,
his right hand was crushed by a printing press.
Crushed by other people’s stories. When it healed, he began
to build. He used his hands to build tanks
and his hands to build cradles
His hands were the last thing to touch dead soldiers
and the first to touch his newborn sons.
He built a good family
and that family built me
and I use my hands to build his story.
The story is not a eulogy.
A eulogy seals the casket.
A eulogy lets no air out.
The story is a resurrection.
Jesus was not resurrected by God,
he was brought back by the people who told his stories.
It does not take a miracle
to raise the dead.
To leave behind the tombstone
and take the name with you.”
- i just want you all to myself, i’m sorry (via c-oquetry)
you’re going to fall in love with a girl
with hair a little longer than mine, another writer-type with all sorts of ideas about things but perhaps a little less aggressive about them, you’re going to kiss her in the ways i taught you and you’re going to figure out some new ways too and when the two of you have sex, she will be just a little bit better at it than i ever have been
you’re going to fall in love with a girl that smells good enough you bury your face in the curve of her neck and her tummy will never growl like
mine always did. she’ll be deep and mysterious but she won’t come with the heavy past sitting on her shoulders. she won’t ever keep you awake with worry. she’ll always text you back
and never bite too hard and never act in a way she can’t explain later. she will not cry when she gets drunk, she’ll just fall asleep beside you.
you’ll fight with her sometimes because all couples fight but it won’t be with the teeth and claws that we had, it will be almost gentle, it will be over before it really gets going
you’re going to love her until you’re no longer really sure if what we had was all that special. you’ll start badmouthing me to all your friends. you’ll forget about me in most moments and eventually you won’t even be able to tell someone what our first date was or our first kiss or even if you fucked me
the last time that we spoke. i’ll just be gone to you, just a memory of a memory, a girl with dark eyes, a half-capable poet, some word on your tongue you’re no longer sure of but you remember that you used to know it.
i will no longer be important."
- The Color of Low Self Esteem (Nayyirah Waheed)
Anonymous asked: Hey so uh you're cute
Well, aren’t you a sweetheart! Come off anon; I want to know who you are!
have you ever just looked at someone and thought, my fucking god i love you. i love every goddamn ounce. i love your bones and your soul. but I’m a loser, who just doesn’t wanna lose you. i can lose fucking everything, but not you. oh god. not you.
- Her (2013)