He’s not a poet, but
I can tell from the way that he
traced the curve of my spine with his fingertips
that he thinks like one.

Because I could never fall in love with a man
who didn’t know
that the most tender thing
he could possibly do
was send me a poem by Baudelaire
and tell me, “I think you might possibly like this.”

Because fuck if that’s not one of my favorites.

And all I ever wanted was to fold myself into someone
who heralded unspoken thoughts and was a messenger
of words without words
of a kiss broken by silence,
of silence, broken by a kiss.

Because all of the men I’ve ever fallen for
weren’t really poets.

They just held secrets
like gold teeth in the back of their mouths,

and they just kissed me,
like I was the last poem in the world.

Shinji Moon, “30”  (via fawun)
Here is the ending before the beginning:
I pick you out of my teeth like spinach.
I take a bath and I don’t think about drowning myself.
My sister spends the weekend at the apartment and
doesn’t ask me about it, even though she can see
that my teeth have gotten sharper since last time.
Your name is just a name.
I am still in one piece when I close the door.
I say “thank you for everything” and wipe my mouth.
You watch the Discovery Channel and see a lioness
lick her bloody paws after a kill.
You think of me and wonder if the grass was really so tall
that you couldn’t see me coming.
I am growing into something fierce and hungry.
When I kiss your skin, I am only trying to taste your bones.
Whatever is left of you, I hope it forgets me.
—Prey | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)
Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
—Richard Siken, Crush (via rosyfever)

I mean in the best way possible that I am my own wife but
tonight, I wish that my heart could belong
in the palm of someone else’s hand. Or in the background drumming
of a band on a road towards nowhere. I am not scared
of losing you. I am scared of what I will do to get there.

My hair has been a hundred colors in the last year
all an in effort to displease the people who stared at me
at parties. It worked. Now I wear black lipstick. Now I open
glass bottles with my bare hands. You ask me why I have been
alone for so long. I tell you that there’s nothing wrong with me
and that isn’t a lie. I embroider psalms into notebooks.
I am a dull girl.
Won’t you kiss me?

And I am trying so hard to be
pretty, and soft, and homey,
but there are bombs under my fingernails and gun shells
in my tongue. And every war I’ve fought I’ve won.
I am trying so hard not to scare you, but I am a bomb.
So here I run with open arms. Here I run with every scar -
I am open. I cannot hide myself like other girls,
I am a broken arrow. I borrow lines from better poets.
I am too honest not to show it.

Know that no, I am not scared to lose you
but I am scared of scaring you with the kiss in my lips if I call you some day
and we both have nothing to say.

The Sort of Fear That Doesn’t Have a Name by Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)
It is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.

George Orwell (via writingquotes)

Jesus, yes.

One of my biggest problems is that as soon as I relax and start writing comfortably is this VOICE enters my narration. It’s the voice of this smug, overly sarcastic, self-satisfied little shit who sounds like that one guy at the party who isn’t just content with telling everyone else a story about something that happened to him over the nibbles and Sancerre, he’s determined to show how smart and right he was in the situation he’s talking about, how well he grasped what was happening, and what a good understanding he has of human nature in general. And you just want to pick up the dish of olives and break it over his smug, self-satisfied little skull.

(via waffleguppies)

There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.
—Kazuo Ishiguro (via observando)
미안해. 수천수만 번을 말하고 또 미안해
이 좁은 방의 낮은 천장이 하늘이란 게,
내가 너의 우산이자 비란 게.
I’m sorry. No matter how many times I say it, I’m still sorry
That this low ceiling of this small room is our sky,
That I’m not your umbrella, but your rain.
—Tablo (밑바닥에서)