The first time I say I love you, your face
crumbles. You look at me
the way man stares in terror
at the stars and the sea.

You grasp your head, fist
your hair, hiss, whisper why me
why me I am weak I am
dirt I am dust I am
nothing—

Why you? Because
the earth is made of dust
and dirt and you are as
essential to me as earth
is to sky; you give me something
to set my sun against.

The dirt and the dust are not
weak. I could build a house
out of you; you are the roof
when I rain.

by notbecauseofvictories

how to move on

nevver:

e. e. cummings

godkilling:

ii.

someone told me
you were a civil war inside a body:

bruised/shattered, fingers broken and a
mouth full of blood;

you made an art of
tucking away the parts of you the daylight
couldn’t bear.

but one day

you will learn
it’s okay to show your bruises;

strip them from your body
and lay them out in front of me.
bare your skin
and tell me where it hurts
so I can kiss the broken parts of you.

because
there is something delicate
about someone

whose mouth still smells of copper

and whose fingers
are still twisted.

Okay, Ophelia by Jeannine Hall Gailey.

“

I am not like other people.
I am burning in hell.

The hell of myself.

”

Charles Bukowski (via larmoyante)