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(something beautiful every day)
“you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him traveling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.”
—"For Women Who Are Difficult to Love," Warsan Shire (via commovente)

(via dee-lirious)

“I fished this poem out of the drain,
and forgot to clean up the mess before you came home.
You don’t say anything about the ghosts in the
corner of the room or the tree branches I hang
like a chandelier over my bed to remind me
that I am not the only one who has lost parts of herself.
If there is another name for being loved like this
then I haven’t learned it yet.
If there is another name for being forgiven like this,
then it must be yours.
This isn’t supposed to be an apology,
but I am sorry most days anyway.
Sorry about the holes in my bones.
Sorry about the guns I keep loaded,
just in case something haunted still lives in a closet somewhere.
Sorry about the well I almost drowned in,
Sorry I’m always chasing dreams down the wrong rabbit holes.
Sorry I keep shrinking myself down.
If there is something else you wanted to hear from me,
then I am sorry about that, too.
I am constantly making apologies,
but you’re never one of them.
What I mean to say,
is I love you even on the days
I don’t know what love is.
Even on the days I am sure
it doesn’t belong with me.”
—Y.Z, Wishful thinking (via rustyvoices)

(via chaoticallyclev)

“I’m tired of the way love turns us into animals.
I’m tired of roaring. I’m tired of you tearing
my flesh with your teeth, stalking me like prey
in the shower, lunging and growling; I’m tired
of pawing, and panting, and hunting
and wagging. Of course at first it was thrilling. The we
have no words for this. The we are just
our bodies. But look at my cortex. Look
at my opposable thumbs. I want out
of this stew, I want to use tools, I want to develop
agriculture and walk upright towards you through
this field of corn that we planted, on purpose, because
we were hungry, and human, and knew
exactly what we were doing.”
"Neolithic Revolution,” Ali Shapiro (via commovente)

(via leighway)

i think your heart is a ship.
i think i am not the ocean you are looking for.
i am not your pacific. there is more salt
than ocean when you dip your tongue
into my waters.

i think i am the dead sea.
you do not care for king david. it’s the 21st century.
nobody will believe there is sacred in me.
there is nothing holy about me anymore.

i think you do not like the bodies i keep afloat.
i think you find my inability to drown the dead a curse.
i think you do not understand my desire to be soft
with even the devil. only the most cruel men
have ever reflected my kind of loneliness.
i think the world need only love and listen to them
before they melt into submission.

i think i am the wrong kind of softness.

i am almost all water and drowning,
but i can’t even do what water does -
hold a ship up. hold you up.
your heart is too heavy with meaning.
it means too much to me.

i think your heart is a ship that was built to sail away.
i think i was built to hold up the wrong bodies.
i think it was best like this.

—i think i am the dead sea, Diana Rahim (via verkur)

(via endquestionmark)

Anonymous asked: why do you have the same icon as gyzym?

because i am gyzym! this is my poetry (and occasionally other shit) storage blog, so i don’t spam my main page when i find stuff i want to save :D 

letthemeatvegancake:

Strawberry Rose Water Bars

Adaptive Behavior | Sarah Lindsay

Five miles deep,
on the Japan Trench floor
the forecast is the same today
as for the last million years:
near freezing, cave-black,
five tons of pressure per square inch.
Slow rain of flesh.
Snailfish ask nothing more.
Their plump head-bodies are pale
with dark eyes, reports
the submersible, peering
through portals of solid sapphire.
Energetically, gracefully,
they congregate over a meal of shrimp,
waving their ribbon tails.
Snailfish bear large eggs,
deal carefully with their young,
move swiftly in the dark,
in an ocean of pressure—and here
the observers, so easily
drowned or crushed,
thought to find only
feeble, half-paralyzed creatures.
Snailfish move as if joyous,
never pine, fear no grief;
they are strong,
like Staphylococcus bacteria tried
for generations by hospital protocols,
strong like earthworms
in old mines who swallow
copper, lead, and arsenic,
yet thrive, excreting
milder poisons.
A snailfish ripples
through Pacific depths,
an earthworm tunnels under England,
and neither bears an enormous brain
that must be fed,
a hearthfire demanding
every tree for miles.
Such brains belong
to the ones who invented
a camera that can plumb the sea
and return, and the ones
who poured the metal
and mined the stone, the ones
who mow their lawns,
wear shoes that hurt,
deafen themselves with music;
the ones with bad backs,
bad knees, terrible eyesight,
who stay up late,
speed on highways,
don’t eat their vegetables,
sometimes sit on one side of a bed
too sad to pull on socks, and sometimes
fall in love
like mangoes hitting the ground;
the ones who scrounged for grants
and skipped having kids
so they could be seasick over the trench
where hypothetical,
solitary, anemic beings
listlessly lived—and who leaned
toward their video evidence
of vigorous fish
and made noises of pure delight.

I Remember The Look Of My Ex-Wife Sitting Quietly In The Window On A Certain Day | Albert Goldbarth

Nefertiti means “The Beautiful One Has Come”

and this rendition of her was sculpted out of limestone
in the workshop of Thutmose
about 1340 BC

and having survived the subsequent era’s
destruction of most of the other sculptural references to her
—essentially, the destruction of her sisters—

she was excavated in 1912 
her beauty as so often happens immediately argued over
by Egypt Britain France and Germany
all demanding ownership

and was ceded to Germany
there to go on display in 1923 in Berlin
although the international arguing continued

and remained there in Berlin as the Hitler war machine
was pieced together
and remained there as the tanks and missiles and gas chambers
left the blueprint stage

and in 1939 because of the war was taken
to shelter in a salt mine in Thuringia
her one good eye with the inlaid iris
and the one that had left the workshop blank

so many thousand years before

surrounded by walls and ceiling and floor
of salt salt salt salt salt salt

all of the stuff of weeping
and not one tear.

To The Picky Eater At Love’s Table | Susan Blackwell Ramsey

This isn’t the love you sent back to the kitchen,
the one you now remember as seasoned exactly
to your taste, which you now admit you returned
because you weren’t that hungry and because
you thought the kitchen would be open all night.

And now this is set before you. Ominous shapes
in—is it puttanesca? Hunan?—sauce
which stings the tip of your tongue. The smell that rises
repels, attracts—and is this pottery crude
or priceless art you’re not qualified to judge?

You miss the pretty plate, that sweet, mild meal
that never burned your lips. I’m not saying make do.
I’m saying it’s a long time between meals out here,
and gourmets are pressing their noses to the window
for a whiff of what is cooling on your plate.

i think these things are pretty safe: Passing Through | Stanley Kunitz

tinyjockey:

Nobody in the widow’s household
ever celebrated anniversaries.
In the secrecy of my room
I would not admit I cared
that my friends were given parties.
Before I left town for school
my birthday went up in smoke
in a fire at City Hall that gutted
the Department of Vital Statistics.
If…

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