My grandfather always said that living is like licking honey off a thorn.
Louis Adamic (via pattiocleavis)
And the entire history of my love
Is you and this evening.
I am the kind of woman who is already teaching my body to miss yours
Yrsa Daley-Ward, from “sthandwa sami (my beloved, isiZulu),” bone (via lifeinpoetry)
lots and lots of hugs. you’ll figure things out soon. sending you forehead kisses and lots of warm thoughts in the meantime.
You used to believe in this city of miracles,
but that was three heartbreaks ago.
it’s been sleeping with the windows open
hoping someone will hear
your heart breaking
from three doors down.
it’s been thinking too long about
cashiers who ask you how your day’s been and
tell you to stay safe.
it’s been setting the sky on fire
and dancing in the ash that follows.
it’s been poetry you can’t understand
and poetry that rips you apart in the wrong places.
staying up at night to talk to your oldest mistake,
when you swear you’re just praying
When you swear you’ve
moved beyond all of that.
Y.Z, how long’s it been since you’ve felt unhaunted?
He starts it off, as they always do, by saying,
“I still want to be friends” but I am already
on the next subway, the next taxi, the next whatever.
I am thinking about dinner that night, or the next night:
Angus beef, sauteed chicken, mahi mahi fish tacos.
I am thinking about the coffee pot and runner’s knee
and how much money I have in my savings. I am
thinking about hypothermia and missing bodies;
all the knives in my bed. I am thinking about how
the very word promise sounds more like an undoing.
I am thinking about the easiness of mouths.
How they open. How they give so much but also
about how they take away the things our minds
have committed to that permanent place of the brain,
where memories continue to rattle around long after
we’ve stopped shaking. I am thinking about how
he has turned me into a lake and I’ve never learned
how to swim. I am thinking about how I now have to
unlearn all of his secrets. Become a tourist to his body
again, blink against the hurt. I am thinking about
expensive hair cuts and retail therapy, dressing room
girls who are used to outlandish requests from customers.
I am thinking that this isn’t a dress my mother
would approve of, but honey, I look so good in red.
We will love like dogwood.
Kiss like cranes.
Die like moths.
Larissa Shmailo, “Spring Vow” (via oofpoetry)
I have fallen into poetry and it has swallowed me up.
Keith Haring (via poetry-and-insomnia)