it's you all along

chew your name and it tastes like
pecans and milk and
brown gasoline,
i have
never written a poem about
the way
you kissed of thunder or
how your fingers were
wet matches
against my skin, God, we could have
built cities, we could have started
but even Mt. Olympus
had it’s fall and even the stars forget
why they are burning

—i.i. (via irynka)

(via irynka)

I expect the boy I love to carry a condom in his wallet and his hands around me when I ask him about the rain. We do not need to make love everyday. I just want him to want me, even when I no longer laugh at bubble gum wrapper jokes and feel a little less beautiful. Even when the zipper on my skin decided to clash its teeth and draw blood on our bed sheets.

I will forget the grocery shopping list. I will cut myself cooking his favorite casserole and drain it down the toilet after I taste the roof of his mouth. My mom never taught me how to cook. Every time she held my hands she did it with forks and knives and words that can slice the chopping board in half. She never blew the clouds on my burnt skin, so I will not know what to do when the condom breaks apart.

I want my body to stop lying to me. I want my mind to choose between coffee and tea, and not gin or whiskey. My boyfriend’s clothes has one hundred creases because my hands did not know what to do last night. If my mom was alive she would not tell me I’m beautiful. She would probably hand me a knife and ask me stop the baby from breathing within my skin, even if it means hurting me.

 Kharla M. BrilloI’m 21 and i no longer want to be called “baby.” (via pouvoires)

(via flightlessdove)

Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?
Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself

—Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woodpecker (via olivia-ross)

(Source: writingwillows, via olivia-ross)

I think I’m losing it—I don’t know what’s happening, what happened, but I look at you, I look at you, and I love you so much. Not because of anything you’ve said, or done, or anything at all. I look at you, and I just love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.

—Alexandra Bracken, Never Fade (via quotes-shape-us)

(via cybergirlfriend)

you watched me fall apart
and weren’t afraid to
touch the sharp
shards of me.

this is how I know (a collection)

liz (2.2.2014)

(via irynka)

Cause you never think that the last time is the last time. You think there will be more. You think you have forever, but you don’t.

—Meredith Grey, Grey’s Anatomy (via zubat)

(Source: morelovexlesshate, via orkwurd)

I’ve fallen in love with you one hundred and thirty two times.
The first was at 2am, sheets sticking to our skin, sharing a pillow,
“tell me another secret”,
The twenty third time was on a highway four hundred miles later. You held my face, the sun with butterflies, the sky with pink. I felt the world spinning around its invisible axis, the solar system around its visible star, my heart dizzy from your gravity.
The seventy seventh time was when you came pouring out like a waterfall onto my toes. Give it all to me baby, the entire river, the flow and crash. I can take it. I can count so much higher.
The one hundred and tenth time was when you took it all away from me. Left my mouth gaping, a vacuum trying to suck you back in. I fell in love with you as you were leaving, fell in love with what I’d miss.
Fell in love with the face I kissed for the last time two days ago without knowing it.
The one hundred and twelfth time was in the mouth of another man calling me baby. “you’re mistaken, I was not born in you, I was born in blue eyes that are blinking somewhere else now”.
And shit, I fell in love with you just a moment ago, naked in your arms again, glutinous in how much of you I take, hoarding each moment I get in your arms, keeping them in the caves of my memory in case I’m forced to hibernate again.
I’ve known you for six hundred and something days, loved you in three hundred and something of them. Some days I spend worrying about finances and the state of the world, some days I spend locked in my room listening to Radiohead albums on repeat, some days I smoke too much and some days I sleep through to take a break from being awake. But some days I experience the in-between of miracles and magic. Some days I lose myself entirely, all because you exist. Some days you look at me and I forget my name. I fall in love over and over, again and again, adding another tally to the wall.
I’ve been alive for seven thousand and something days, most of which were mundane. Most of which were wasted. Some of which were spent falling in love with you, in your voice and in your fingertips, in your eyes and in your stride, in your presence and in your absence.
Over and over.
Again and again.
With infinite tallies on a wall.

Magic Numbers by Stevie Lorann (via caelums)

(via cybergirlfriend)