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)

zodiacchic:

ZC <3

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

Warsan Shire (via wordsnquotes)

(via cuntsandcadavers)

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)

these-times-shall-pass:

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