“Are you the SAT because I’d do you for 3 hours and 45 minutes with a 10 minute break halfway through for snacks, and then I can stare at you for like 10 minutes and think ‘wow, I hope I don’t ruin this.’”— Dude on OKC with the best pick up lines I have ever heard (via katamarang)
“You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.”—Maya Angelou (via feminist-fairy)
Today many of you finished 16 years of formal education and graduated college. That is approximately 73% of your life so far and almost 100% of your conscious life. To you I say, “Congratulations, you worked your ass off.”
You hold something now that only 6.7% of the people of the…
“At the very least, poetry and science are sisters.
But, more likely, they are the soul and the body,
sharing a single heart,
whispering arias to the universe,
waiting to hear it singing back.”—by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)
“You fear the world,
I fear myself.
a perfect pair,
but I am too busy
conquering my demons
and you are too busy
running from them.”—Michelle K., A Boy Whose Name Start With ‘N’ (via michellekpoems)
“she is the sixth syllable and
the twenty seventh letter.
everything they taught you in school
did not prepare you for this.
she has the quiet of the floorboards
of the victorian house at the end of the street.
but you don’t go near her. you can’t.
you’re so scared to look at her it makes you sorry.
she is your first laugh at three months old,
the heart breaking in you at sixteen,
the realisation that not every road in
the world is a blocked one.
that there are construction sites in your head
and that’s why you can’t hear yourself think.
she is the moments, she is the slap, she is the being
and tonight, she is lying on your stomach in the dark,
and the grass will turn into quicksand,
and the moon will crumble into itself,
but you won’t notice”—Salma.D - You Won’t Notice (via writingwillows)
“Sometimes I imagine my own autopsy. Disappointment in myself: right kidney. Disappointment of others in me: left kidney. Personal failures: kishkes. When the clocks are turned back and the dark falls before I’m ready, this, for reasons I can’t explain, I feel in my wrists. And when I wake up and my fingers are stiff , almost certainly I was dreaming of my childhood. Yesterday I saw a man kicking a dog and I felt it behind my eyes. I don’t know what to call this, a place before tears. The pain of forgetting: spine. The pain of remembering: spine. All the times I have suddenly realized that my parents are dead, even now, it still surprises me, to exist in the world while that which made me has ceased to exist: my knees.To everything a season, to every time I’ve woken only to make the mistake of believing for a moment that someone was sleeping beside me: a hemorrhoid. Loneliness: there is no organ that can take it all.”—The History of Love, Nicole Krauss (via notebookings)
I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
Three hundred and eighty years before God
when gravity didn’t exist
And the sun danced around the earth
And not the other way around,
Love consisted of melodies and floating
Towards the other half
In 1687 god created gravity with the same apple
And all man landed on earth
and circled stars
A few minutes laters
Man became “enlightened”
and stars and planets circled my innocence
I pulled her
We pulled each other
I like to think our orbits became intertwined
And we were headed for one another
I like to think our attraction was so strong
That we lost control and direction
I like to think I missed happiness by a feather
And shot passed one another
In a thousand years
I like to hope to feel her orbit again
To be her Sun or her planet
Until then ill drink her radiation
And pull and pull
And hope against hope
I don’t pull too hard
I’ve been told the things you hate are always a part of you
I hate apathy
Yet I feel the exact opposite is part of me
She makes me feel too much
The pain and ecstasy of her once kiss
excite me, drown me, exhaust me
Maybe that is it
That is why my heart swings
so rapidly from one side of her to the other
Because maybe if you can average my feelings
I really don’t miss her at all
Or maybe I hate the way she makes my heart beat
Most of all
“Wouldn’t we be quite the pair?—you with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together, though, we might have something worthwhile.”—In a letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to F. Scott Fitzgerald (via bbook)
are harder than others:
the silence when you say
I love you
to someone who
doesn’t say it back,
the silence when someone
you love dies,
when the rest of the world
is asleep, but
you’re wide awake
with your loneliness,
after the storm,
that never ends,
that follows you
like a second shadow,
that you hear
in every word,
you can almost touch it,
that crawls into your skin
and flows through your veins,
that hits like a knife,
that never stops
screaming.”—The silence that is anything but silent, Emm Roy. (via drunkology)
Empty the heart of everything. Drain the vena cava of all your love. Cut the anger that is growing off of your aortal trunk. Sponge the dripping walls of your right atrium, and dust your veins of every history running through them.
“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially”—Ernest Hemingway
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.”—
There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable
incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.
In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportion to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.
“There’s so much more to life than finding someone who will want you, or being sad over someone who doesn’t. There’s a lot of wonderful time to be spent discovering yourself without hoping someone will fall in love with you along the way, and it doesn’t need to be painful or empty. You need to fill yourself up with love. Not anyone else. Become a whole being on your own. Go on adventures, fall asleep in the woods with friends, wander around the city at night, sit in a coffee shop on your own, write on bathroom stalls, leave notes in library books, dress up for yourself, give to others, smile a lot. Do all things with love, but don’t romanticize life like you can’t survive without it. Live for yourself and be happy on your own. It isn’t any less beautiful, I promise.”—
(via pussology) <- but no. I wrote this. (why are the names always deleted?)
“You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”—Frida Kahlo (via theunquotables)
The casts are on the floor, the bandages are in a corner by the bed where the window light breaks over them and small particulate matter floats around in the hanging beams. I recognize myself momentarily as a body supine on the mattress. Cells at the edge of each break replicate and become…
“Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings that puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly inside.”—Sigmund Freud (via ontelbaar)