6/1 13:55 - deadundergr0und - 45 notes
These opinions are poison, and I've been drinking them all of my life.///////////////////////////\\The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep
“I clear a space to write, for you, to you, against you. You are the measure of my abilities. I reach for your exactitude, your ambition, y our folly. You are the tide mark on the bridge, the level to reach. You are the face who always avoids my glance, the man who is just leaving the bar. I search for you through the spirals of all my sentences. I throw out whole pages of manuscript because I cannot find you in them. I search for you in small details, in the shapes of my verbs, the quality of my phrases. When I can write no more because I am too tired, my head aches, my left arm is cramped with tension, and I am left irresolute, I get up, go out, drink, cruise the streets. Sex is a brief gesture, I fling away my body with my money and my fear. It is a sharp sensation which fills the empty space before I can go in search of you again. I repent nothing but the frustration of being unable to reach you. You are the glove that I find on the floor, the daily challenge I take up. You are the reader for whom I write.”
12/28 15:24 - 8 notes
I’m half asleep
my fingers are cold
and my stomach is sick
I am so alone
12/12 00:38 - bambi-slaughter - 46 notes
12/12 00:37 - creedlers - 821 notes
“There is nothing as feverish as the shiver
in my spine. This melody softly kills the air,
as not one polarised world fits into place.
Nought we surround ourselves with,
and not a thing we care to share. For this
is where forgiveness lies, lowly and forged
into such a deep and treacherous lie.
Relieve your sight from that dank and narrow
bend. We sit, we wait… we are here.”
8/30 02:36 - 1 note
8/22 20:29 - 1,998 notes
“And I don’t have enough time now, never enough time. I want to be in the moment with him, feel his body against mine and think of nothing else, but my mind explodes with grief for all that I am missing. All that I will miss. All that I have wasted.”
8/15 21:32 - vintague - 22,943 notes
“So give my eyes to the eye bank, give my blood to the blood bank. Make my hair into switches, put my teeth into rattles, sell my heart to the junk man. Give my spleen to the mayor. Hook my lungs to an engine. Stretch my guts down the avenue. Stick my head on a pike, plug my spine to the third rail, throw my liver and lights to the winner. Grind my nails up with sage and camphor and sell it under the counter. Set my hands in the window as a reminder. Take my name from me and make it a verb. Think of me when you run out of money. Remember me when you fall on the sidewalk. Mention me when they ask you what happened. I am everywhere under your feet.”
8/14 06:11 - 2 notes
8/8 15:04 - 23 notes
"
wanting to die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad Bone; bruised, you’d say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
- Anne Sexton
7/31 16:34 - 1 note
“i have open empty lemonade palms so my bones are left fizzy with indecision. there are birds in the cages of my lungs; i inhale and feel their heartbeats like thousands of shaking strings.”
“I’d like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only…I’d like to be that unnoticed and that necessary.”
7/22 11:48 - 8 notes
“I would have revealed my own fast, my own body ribboned into syllables of bone. I would have untied the sad bow of his mouth looped and knotted for a kiss.”
