This is not a poem. This is
left over wax stuck to the side
of a snuffed candle.
This is a war song sung by an army
that doesn’t know if the fight
is worth it. This is a silhouette:
the light barely scraping its
creases. White noise -
that blaring sound
between the two radio stations
when you can’t quite
pick up the frequency.
This is not a poem.
It’s the wind
pulling us in the direction of home.
The hills rolling and rolling,
a kaleidoscope spinning
masses of mosaics and a child
staring at it in awe.
Leaves glimmering
against a black sun.
This is the fragility
of cobwebs.
The tide pulsing.
This is how
despite all our differences,
our bones are the same colour.
This is not a poem, it’s a bare
knuckled fist fight.
A fatal knockout.
This is an emergency.

You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.

(Source: ozneo, via sex)

I am going to make everything around me beautiful - that will be my life.

Elsie De Wolfe (via jstrdm)

(Source: psych-facts, via jstrdm)


ZC <3

I’m sorry you were not truly loved and that it made you cruel.

Warsan Shire (via wordsnquotes)

(via cuntsandcadavers)


All teary eyed and lost. I’m so stupid for not fixing things when I had the chance.

I am so lost.

Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

Sylvia Plath (via teenager90s)

(via sleepwalking-past-death)


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