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I'llsleepwhen I'm dead.

After your dreams have all died and morning isn't morning, what are you?
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caseyashman:

i like sleeping and i like laying next to people and i like a lot of things but probably i would just like to be with you most of the time. i am like the dead sea. but really i am just good at running away. everyday life as never suited me like a suitcase or a train or a hotel room. i was born to be a flight risk and i usually just gamble on things and they tend to not turn out the way i plan for them to turn out. your shirt is laying on my bed and i am not feeling too well because probably i miss you too much and want to know entirely too much about you. but you make me feel like we can do much more and i don’t want to hang my head anymore because love is supposed to make you feel good but i think it just makes me feel sick in the night, nauseous like. my sheets are white and the news i heard yesterday was bad and all i want to do is lay here and breathe and be a part of things. when i read the newspaper i feel like the tears are already there on my face like tiny rivers. people do bad things and when i feel like that, when my naive heart learns that not everyone is on my side, i pretend you’re here because that is easier than living. i sort of want to carry your heart with me in my heart and in my eyes, too. and too often i expect something more and that is bad because i just walk away then, i start on of those quiet little wars and i don’t think people like that too much, probably. i am very weird and people usually have to hold me by the edges, and i think that is just my way of telling you that  i love you. i show you my edges and you hold me by them. it hasn’t rained in a long while and that is kind of unnerving because the rain is what makes me quiet, it is like ghost towns in me when it pours. i like railroad tracks and lonesome things like unwrinkled pillows and bars and pine trees, and i think those visions of the past just have to follow me around because they might come back and be more sad than they were before now. i had a dream i was sitting on a beach in Seattle by myself, in the really really early hours of the morning, and you were married and your wife had a tiny person inside her belly and you were both laughing at the dinner table and i was just lost some place in the back of your head. i was like an afterthought or the smell after the rain, i never really stayed. i found myself staring at the waves and thinking about storms and how our bodies would break in the waves and i’d kiss your neck to your shoulder blade. you would drag me at the edges of your coat for weeks like everything you said somehow had water beneath it. it scared me to need you more than i thought it would. i woke up with the crying in my sleep and noticed a good friend had crawled into bed beside me (she is a girl who wears a brain in her head) and i loved her then, i wanted to kiss her for making me not alone. i wanted to start over and hurry home to you so i can make one of those fancy ribbons on your fingers and sing along to the radio. i missed you for 15 whole years before i saw you and i dreamed about you and new you behind closed doors and probably wrote about you too, i think. maybe i picked violets for you and ate raspberries because they’d come to remind me of your cheeks and i knew that, but really i didn’t. i don’t think i knew you were going to be here and then leave like you did. it is a little thing inside me that tangles me with you, probably it showed up when we drove to the garden and you put a black-eyed susan in my hair, and we needed each other so much then, and i was a lot of things but i was never small. my heart just always felt big and tall and luminous and it was good to know i could still feel that. and then in the winter it got cold and we bundled up and you looked at the holes in me and touched them so lightly with your lithe, elfin fingers, like they were made of sound or snow. i got to sleep next to you and you sighed yourself to sleep and i could think about was spring and how much i would love you every day and how beautiful it would be to be this close to you every second of the time i am sleeping.

Posted 1 year ago      with 27 notes      ↳↴
Heart Bones

writingoutputmechanism:

God is a rotten kid with holes in his jeans and bags under his eyes, throwing rocks at his own bedroom window. I don’t feel okay. I wish you loved me sober. Your body is a machine, and it will break down. Spaghetti in bed. Naked. I can swallow 6 pills at once. You’re a broken hourglass, but I refuse to buy a watch. I’m waiting for a time that will never come. At least I can drive, and climb mountains. Your eyes will be like boarded-up windows when they find me, when they find any of us. I don’t believe in God.

Posted 1 year ago      with 24 notes      ↳↴
23.

whale-bone:

He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.

I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.

Posted 1 year ago      with 86 notes      ↳↴

laurenmariegrant:

image

It’s Thanksgiving and there’s flour on my skirt that won’t brush off. I’m sitting in my parent’s living room surrounded my old high school newspapers and my parent’s wedding picture. National Dog Show on mute, my mom is outside smoking a cigarette and I wish I was with her but my parent’s think nicotine doesn’t phase me.

“By the time we were your age, you had already started kindergarten.” My dad is starting his speech about how single I am from the kitchen while I sit here staring at a Google Doc of poems I’d written about our last two weeks together. I start to get dizzy and stare at the burn on my thumb I’d gotten earlier this afternoon from a hot pie tin.

“Would it kill you to bring home a good guy one year? Any guy. Somebody.”

I’m getting dizzier and I try to write about our last kiss.
I keep repeating adjectives
and I remember how you do that in your songs
and we used to get a long and
your favorite breed of dog
is on the tv and
its getting harder to breathe.

“You really should be thinking about marriage soon.”

I’m trying to pretend I didn’t hear my dad when my mind takes me back to three weeks ago. You drunk on one knee in Los Angeles after you’d slept with somebody else the night before. My dad is still talking at me from the other room and I’m thinking of the ring you put in my luggage even though I’d said no. I was happy because you wanted to be with me.

I’m watching a Facebook video of the dad of somebody I vaguely know deep fry a turkey. He’s wearing blue rubber gloves. And I’m wondering how many other girls you’ve proposed to and I’m thinking of the time you made fun of me for making you kiss me against a tree in Tennessee and how you had said that something was nothing when it really was everything.

My dad’s rant turned into a phone call with his dad and I’m looking at her instagram feed where she called you her boyfriend and I am suppressing every breath and lump in my chest while I check to see if you had clicked a red heart on it. You didn’t, but I don’t feel better. I’m scrolling through our text history from last night when you tried to pretend we were fine and then I open a tab to your Twitter feed. 3 hours ago, “Let go.” It probably wasn’t directed towards me because you aren’t one for subtweeting, that’s my job, but I slam my computer shut anyway.

I don’t eat during break ups so I’m mad at you for making me do this before Thanksgiving. I get nauseous and step out the front door underneath the bright suburban clear sky. The cold but not too cold sea air blends into my lungs while I sit in the driveway and look at the dead leaves in the gutter.

Posted 1 year ago      with 17 notes      ↳↴

writingoutputmechanism:

It began in the back and ended in the front of your car. The gods in our heads didn’t know what to think, so the blood in our hands did the thinking instead. They thought of things beyond what we knew, beyond what we had known for years. But what you know in the morning seems like a lie in the evening, if you lie the right way. It was the sweetest lie we ever told each other. The feelings I had been searching for: Someone to share the beautiful strangeness of the universe with. But the seeds we’d planted in spring grew into stones when autumn came, and every time I skipped one on the water in your eyes it would bounce back and land in my pocket. The garden was empty, there was nothing to harvest, and I stumbled out of your car.

But, so did you. And maybe we weren’t born to be gardeners. 

Posted 1 year ago      with 18 notes      ↳↴
39. This is about anyone and everyone I know.

whale-bone:

I hate when people touch me. I hate that my hands are always cracked. I hate that I can’t wear headbands or lipstick or short skirts. I hate how forgetful you are. I hate that you dream of someone who probably isn’t me. I hate that I hated it when that other boy said I was “different.” I hate that you would always say making love. Call it like it is. A cheap fuck. I hate that you got that new haircut. I hate that I keep subconsciously digging my nails into my arm. I hate that I want you to see me doing this. I hate that this has no rhythm. I hate that I had to use spell-checker to make sure I spelled “rhythm” right. I hate my birthmark. I hate your fucking know-it-all attitude. I hate that I keep writing poems about collarbones. You can’t even see mine, I’m so fucking fat. I hate that you write poetry now. I hate the shape of your mouth. I hate that you won’t touch me in front of other people. I hate that my understanding of relationships is so distorted. I hate that I am so unwilling. I hate that I miss being choked. I hate that I am living this out through you. I hate that I am always searching for problems. I hate that it took me so long to write this.

Posted 1 year ago      with 32 notes      ↳↴
This is about anyone and everyone I know.

I hate when people touch me. I hate that my hands are always cracked. I hate that I can’t wear headbands or lipstick or short skirts. I hate how forgetful you are. I hate that you dream of someone who probably isn’t me. I hate that I hated it when that other boy said I was “different.” I hate that you would always say making love. Call it like it is. A cheap fuck. I hate that you got that new haircut. I hate that I keep subconsciously digging my nails into my arm. I hate that I want you to see me doing this. I hate that this has no rhythm. I hate that I had to use spell-checker to make sure I spelled “rhythm” right. I hate my birthmark. I hate your fucking know-it-all attitude. I hate that I keep writing poems about collarbones. You can’t even see mine, I’m so fucking fat. I hate that you write poetry now. I hate the shape of your mouth. I hate that you won’t touch me in front of other people. I hate that my understanding of relationships is so distorted. I hate that I am so unwilling. I hate that I miss being choked. I hate that I am living this out through you. I hate that I am always searching for problems. I hate that it took me so long to write this. 

(Source: whale-bone)

Posted 1 year ago      with 32 notes      ↳↴
23.

whale-bone:

He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.

I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.

Posted 1 year ago      with 86 notes      ↳↴
WRITING TIPS. (by shirtlessbanjosunshine)

Tip 1) NEVER use an analogy, metaphor, or simile you’ve heard before, unless you’re trying to make a point by using something that is really cliched or the situation calls for it.

Tip 2) Write as if everything is a metaphor for something. Creative writing is alllll about metaphor. 

Tip 3) Erase or improve everything that doesn’t surprise you. If it doesn’t make you go “Wow, did I really write that?” it isn’t enough. Obviously this isn’t always the case, but for the real zinger lines it is most important. Which leads into:

Tip 4: Always pay attention to the excitement level of a line. It should build and fall and do crazy stuff in a pattern, or an order, or something. It has to make sense. This is sooo crucial and nobody has any idea. You can’t just throw things on a paper and call it writing, it has to flow.

Finally, Tip 5: Watch waay too much pornography. Read a lot. Listen to lots of sad music. Laugh at your own suffering. Drink lots of soda out of glass bottles. Pine endlessly for people that don’t exist. Dream about killing yourself in your favorite place. Put your body, spirit and mind on the page, and don’t be afraid to hurt people’s feelings when you write about them obviously. 

Posted 1 year ago      with 20 notes      ↳↴
God is a computer

writingoutputmechanism:

The mechanical gods that we found as the century updated sit and observe us from their electrosexual pedestals, presiding over our every impulse. We are chained to banalities by banalities. Pangs of diode love cut our hearts to pieces and strangle our senses. Circuits are growing in our brains. Eyes are torn out and bulbs are screwed in. And all of this, this beautiful PROGRESS, for the sake of re-remembering the simple information that No, we are not alone, only so that when we re-forget it the next time the sweet flow of data is even a little more efficient. We would sell our souls for efficiency’s sake, if we hadn’t already ripped them out and filled the empty spaces with electronic flesh fiber optic blood. But deep in our vile circuitry, we know that we are already rusted. We will corrode into obscurity.

© Eli Campbell 2012

Posted 1 year ago      with 4 notes      ↳↴

thecurtainsaredrawn:

I’m a mournful clown in the dark. Oh do you know the beauty of hands? Can you see the soul of genetic scars and lines in our bodies from your apartment window? Do you like the way you see the darkness and do you like the way you live under a streetlight? Would you change it, would you change this?

(Source: orangessquash)

Posted 1 year ago      with 8 notes      ↳↴

thecurtainsaredrawn:

I’m a mournful clown in the dark. Oh do you know the beauty of hands? Can you see the soul of genetic scars and lines in our bodies from your apartment window? Do you like the way you see the darkness and do you like the way you live under a streetlight? Would you change it, would you change this?

Posted 1 year ago      with 8 notes      ↳↴
❝ I don’t know when the obsession began.

Perhaps two days into the start of school,
when he said hello to me for the
second time this year

and I realized that it’s not his mouth
or his eyes or even his hair.

Instead,
it’s his hands.

Long, pale, elegant things.
Wispy limbs that induce within me
the kind of longing that belongs
in a harlequin romance.

I’m not trying to be poetic,
but these hands, God, these hands.

They deserve a poem.
They deserve fifty.

The star extending outward
from the wrist bone,
empty bowls clenched around air,
oh, God.

Did I mention he plays the piano?
It would be too easy to say
How I’d love for him to play me.”

I find myself jealous of the pianos
in the music hall, all three of them.

He can’t pass by them without touching them
and the sheer yearning on his face when he sees them
and how he steps around me if I’m closer to them
so that he can trail his fingers along the ivory keys,
play a glissando that ends on a high, clear C—

Oh, God, to be that piano.

To feel him love me: all seven octaves,
all eighty-eight keys. ❞

Kristina H., “His Hands” (via fleurishes)

Posted 1 year ago      with 595 notes      ↳↴
34.

angel-veins:

Its been six weeks and the “peace be with you” sessions in church are still the closest i’ve gotten to finding comfort in another human’s touch.

Posted 1 year ago      with 6 notes      ↳↴