• me: oh yea it's been years I'm over it
  • also me: *was actually irreparably changed to the point that my personality and the way I interact with others and my insecurities are, even today, a direct result of what happened*

Source
“(…) Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.”

Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names (via sir-orfeo)

(via heartcountry)

Source
“I do not want to be a person.
               I want to be unbearable.”

Anne Carson, excerpt of Stanzas, Sexes, Seductions (via henrydear)

gargoylette asked:

i really love that poem!

Thank you so much, darling. Friday was a very hard, very triggering day and if it had to be that way it is nice to know that it at least resulted in a piece even just a few people enjoyed or connected with because that is something. Know that I am smiling and breathing just a touch easier and it means everything. I am sending all the good vibes I have stored your way. I hope the world gives you something lovely and that you are happy and at ease.

Every finger is bleeding
because you’ve been pick, pick, picking-
trying to remove the splinter
that lodged itself in your skin ten years ago.

See, you couldn’t quite remember
exactly where it went in
so you just took your teeth to each in turn,
hoping the throbbing would stop.

But you still feel the pulse of it,
the desperate ache
and maybe it was more a stake
than a splinter.

That winter was so much marbled glass
and despite the time that has passed
stray fragments still litter your stomach,
what you learned to swallow biting
when you least expect it.

Which brings us to today, in your car,
a full decade after
the splinter-stake and broken glass.

Today your chest is solid brass heavy;
your heart is something wild,
prey escaping predator, frantic.

In the panic your lungs
have forgotten how to use the air;
the people are staring,
they are licking their lips,
blood thirsty all of them.

You are always trying to escape,
but you are not safe,
never safe;
too many hands have torn that word
right out of your throat
and left you to clean it up off the floor.

After a while, you couldn’t be bothered
to pick it up anymore.

Source
“Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.
Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m
always saving and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to
             settle the debt.”

Richard Siken, from ‘Wishbone’, Crush (via weltenwellen)

(via wordscanbeenough)

And while his hands were a noose,
each time they fell loose you’d nectar
his apology like a nervous humming bird.

-The toll of having a heart that beats 21 times per second and wings that flutter 70 times in that same instant: So you were always moving too fast to reach the logical conclusion. Meaning, of course you should have left, but how could anyone think straight when their body is that loud? Meaning, your heart was able to contradict itself 1,260 times in just one minute and there isn’t anyone who wouldn’t have trouble making sense of that. Just be glad you have the wind of strange places in your wings and that your lungs sometimes feel like singing, and that there is always so much scenery, and while you may move too fast you are now moving in the right direction.