This is where the mountains crumbled
for the first time.
This is where we found a pile of rocks
and pretended we knew something about rebuilding.
Are you still sorry about any of it?
Let’s forget about the candles we left on all night.
Let’s forget about all those clouds we ran from.
Baby, the storm was us the whole time,
and you have to promise to tell me when the
monsters stop showing up here.
I can’t remember the last time I was destroyed,
but I have a feeling it was all in my head.
Maybe these poems were never about how many
people got their hands on my heart,
but whose blood was on my own fingertips.
I don’t know what the war tasted like,
but I remember the graveyard after.
If I survived before, it wasn’t the right way.
If I survived before,
it means I can do it again differently.
Do these pieces of wood everywhere
means someone is building is something or
someone is destroying something?
Maybe the important thing is that it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the important thing is that it is our choice
what to make of it.
happy birthday someone
I like reblog going this becaUSE WHAT IF YOU SAW THIS ON YOUR BIRTHDAY HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE
There’s no such thing as:
- Using too much conditioner
- putting on too much eyeliner
- wearing too much black
- being too nervous/sad/angry/happy about someone/something
- liking a band “too much”
- falling for someone too fast/too hard.
just remember that ok
is 25 litres of eyeliner too much
friend I’m not sure how you put on your eyeliner but I sure as hell don’t measure mine in litres
he is grass underfoot, you are
god but when his hands connect with your skin
you see constellations and how come one person
can taste so much like both morning cereal and
morning sex you are bright dawn around him,
you are firecracker, fire engine, you are
match and kindling, you are both
going down in history for causing
the highest heartbeats
and you are completely wrong for him because
he’s warm ocean wave and you’re the single tired eye
of a cigarette, he’s thick forest and you’re
you build bricks around your body, you
beg him not come in but he is creeping ivy
and determined to wend and
he somehow always lets the sunlight in
you are anxiety’s grandchild, you are always
too-much too-much too-much, too loud, too
angry, too soft to turn away the hands of
lovers who only wanted your stain
on their lips
and all the time you hear
“you’d be fine if you just stopped trying
so hard at it” but careening out of control is
literally the only way you know how to live
so you constantly apologize for
just being terrible enough to
and lately you’ve been feeling that
unattached hatred of your own condition
you are big flashing self-destruct button
but he is storm-breaker, gift-wrap,
good earth and when you ask why he doesn’t
just leave why he doesn’t just spare himself the trouble
of your explosions and headrush-heat and
spur-of-the-moment words you spit
and he takes your hand and promises
you are not burdensome. you are only