‎later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.
warsan shire  (via emiliaclarkss)
If I knew where poems came from, I’d go there.
—Michael Longley (via petrichour)
aseaofquotes:

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

aseaofquotes:

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

So when you
finally
move on,
where do these things
go?
Where are
those memories abandoned?
Michelle K., Fresh Starts. (via michellekpoems)
You’re an interesting species. An interesting mix. You’re capable of such beautiful dreams, and such horrible nightmares. You feel so lost, so cut off, so alone, only you’re not. See, in all our searching, the only thing we’ve found that makes the emptiness bearable, is each other.

Carl Sagan

Everything you love is here

(via lovequotesrus)
Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?
Charles D’Ambrosio, “Screenwriter” (via loveyourchaos)

Home is something that happens to a person, he said.
(You wake from a whiskey-fuelled daze, still in awe of everybody you were best friends with the night before but whom you couldn’t - for the life of you - remember the names of now.)

Somebody once looked at me like they couldn’t believe that they were looking at me.
(When he looks at me.)

Laying in bed you spread my arms apart from my cocaine-fuelled haze, bandages on the backs of my feet, the life slowly emptying out of my eyes like drops of water from a jar.
(Somebody once told me that they didn’t care that the earth spins ‘round, I could see their sadness.)
Sadness is something we can see, he said.
(We hurt when we are hurt, she said.)

I am the drifter on the side of the road and you are the passenger seat of the first car that stops for me.

My past feels hollow, blank by my synchronized breathing.
(My chest heaving, lungs black.)
You looked at me like you didn’t believe you were looking at me.
I tried my best to be brave.

And soon you will be the man sitting on the curb of a street in a city far, far away from here, books in a cardboard box.
And I will be the lost one standing at the bar buying an over-priced drink, not speaking.

(You will see that life gets like this, sometimes.)

Graves are deeper than the chest cavity.
You awake by my side.
Everything feels like home but nothing feels homely.
Home is what happens to a person, he said.
I said Yes. I said this (not speaking for days.)
But I have never been whole, stitched together with coffee and nicotine.

I’ll cry out.
I’ll leave the window open.
I will try not to need.
And you will try, and both of us, both of us -

we will fail.
(We will fail harder and harder each time again.)

I’ll leave the window open as I scream. The neighbours will hear my sorrow.
All the people will hear our sorrow.
(I tried my best to stay brave.)

Heartbreak is an audible sound, didn’t you know.
(It is not a vase crashing to the floor. It is a flower breaking from its stem.)

We hurt when we are hurt, she said.

Home is not a place but a person, he said.
I can’t find a home in this galaxy, I said.

How we are so close to surprising ourselves once more.
We don’t believe fire is an element.
It only exists within ourselves.
I will, one day, take you under my wing, he says.

Do you see it? The heart opening from its valve.
Only people like us can see it. Colour-blindness, but for the lonely.
I can’t ever find a home in this galaxy.

So we will try (we will try)
not to need.

So we will fail time and time again.

—Neely O’Hara, "home is something that happens to a person" (via beautyisanillusion)
When people stop writing, it’s one of two things - they are either really fucking happy or broken beyond repair.
Ming D. Liu (via mourningmelody)
There’s nothing wrong with reading a book you love over and over. When you do, the words get inside you, become a part of you, in a way that words in a book you’ve read only once can’t.
—Gail Carson Levine (via friends-with-the-doctor)