I am one of the lucky few who is blessed to have a way with words. A carefree manner to deal with the beauty they bestow upon our tongues; upon my tongue. I’m a young, free-spirited individual. One who merely understands the way letters come together and can affect one so viciously. People misinterpret my intentions, and it may cause a negative perception and may even stir up mixed emotions. But that’s where words come in. They roll, seducing flicks rendering flaunt to our desires. Words crash upon our chest and arms and tower over our fragile bodies, engrave sentiments solely for our sake and then… they die. Words die. Crumpled up little balls of paper, thrown into disposables; trash bins. There are words, however, who are hurdled through recycling bins, to be played as pure forms and truth. No one understands the importance we must hold towards the power and meaning of words. Jumbled up, true, wild, foreign, lustful, hurtful- they feel as you do, they turn as our backs do, stand as we sit and fly as we sink. Words are a part of us; a part of you. These said words, are a part of me.
I’m young but I want to be older. I’m independent but I depend on others. I’m insecure but I flaunt my features. I’m a writer but I’m not famous. I’m a thinker but I’m scared to speak. I’m afraid but I hold my chin up high. They say I’m human but… I don’t want to die.
lntroductions.tumblr.com (via lntroductions)
1. People say that when you love someone you see stars when you kiss them, but stars burn out and leave a bad taste in your mouth and holes in the sky where light used to be.
2. When I was 9 I broke my arm and I was convinced that I heard the bone shatter and I started screaming and crying and I had to spend 6 hours in the hospital. I saw the x-Ray, there were cracks under my skin, I don’t want another 6 hours in the hospital and cracks in every bone in my body when you say goodbye
3. My sister fell in love with the boy who lived down the street, the one with dark hair that always fell into his eyes, who spoke in twisted poetry and kissed her like she was all he would ever need, when he told her that he met someone else she stopped eating and only wore long sleeves no matter how hot it was outside, she didn’t smile and she stopped writing poetry after that.
4. I know that when I meet a boy who makes my stomach flutter I’ll want to take him up to my roof and make him count the stars with me the way I do when I’m sad and I’ll want him to hold my hand while we cross the bridge next to the library that makes me feel less alone and I know that once it’s over, I won’t be able to go up to the roof without hoping I fall off and I won’t be able to set foot on that bridge without swallowing him whole.
5. When my dad ran away with the pretty blonde woman he met in Vegas who smelled like smoke and spoke through cheap red lipstick I swear my mother’s heart stopped, I don’t think it’s ever going to start again. I don’t want my heart to die before I do.
6. I don’t want his voice stuck in my head or his touch lingering on my skin, I don’t want his smell soaking through my bedsheets or the way he tastes drilling cavities in my teeth. I don’t want to have to forget. I don’t want to have to miss him. I don’t want my chest to hurt more than it already does.
7. I never really liked butterflies anyway, I always thought ladybugs were a lot nicer.
8. I don’t want to have to stop smoking so many cigarettes because he worries about the way I breathe while I sleep. I don’t want to stop hurting myself because he hates finding blood on the inside of my sleeves. I don’t want to have to fix myself for anyone because I don’t think I can.
9. I hate the way I know I’ll shake when he kisses someone else or lets his phone go to voicemail when I call.
10. I don’t want to meet his mother. I don’t want to wear a nice skirt or make small talk. I don’t want to be torn apart under a microscope. I don’t want to hear her whisper to you about how messy my hair is. I don’t want to watch her cry because she always thought you’d end up with a good girl.
11. I never finish books. I hate endings. I don’t know how to say goodbye. The words get caught in my throat and choke me. I think trying to let would kill me.
1. Sleep naked. If it’s warm outside, open the windows and draw the curtains. You’ll wake up with beams of sunrise on your skin, under cool sheets.
2. Play soccer barefoot. You will feel more free and happy while you savor the moment. Everyone is more arrogant in shoes.
3. Dance to your favorite music.
4. Wear a flower in your hair—or a flower tiara.
5. Do naked yoga.
6. Dance in the rain without fear of getting your feet, hair, clothes or anything else wet.
7. Make yourself a really healthy but yummy dessert, like plain yogurt with fruit, honey and almonds.
7 Home Remedies to Feel Better About Your Body (via goddess-river)
What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?
She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On
Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would
wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave
them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and
a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was
studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t
open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call
begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked
walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the
violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my
gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto
the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.
She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd
questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she
couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She
would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,
"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her
eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies
and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll
scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask
a girl’s feet will tangle yours under sheets you just bought for a night like this. the price tag is still glued to the plastic wrapping stuffed underneath the bed. her feet are frigid and feel like frostbite against your legs when you fall asleep, but they’re like mittens roasted over a fire when the sun blinks through the curtains.
a girl’s legs are taut and thick. they’re flexible and enclose you in a straightjacket at 2 am when they knot around your waist and pull you just a little closer. if she’s still sleeping, it’s even better.
her thighs will make you forget about your calculus homework and your french exam. they will make you forget about your father’s affair or your best friend’s disorders. they will make you forget your name and they will make you forget who you are without them. hold them as tight as you can. i promise, she loves it.
when you were in fourth grade, they taught you stop, drop, and roll at the sign of a fire. when you’re in her bedroom on the second floor, her quivering hips will trick-start a similar fire in your teeth, and you’re going to want to listen to your fourth grade teacher, but don’t. if you stop, whatever it may be that you’re doing, she might kill you.
so in health class, they’re supposed to teach you that your hands will never fit somewhere like they will on a girl’s waist. it doesn’t matter if it’s wide and soft, or small and hard. your hands will adapt to her waist like the heart to your blood. they’ll feel as natural as fingers on an instrument.
sometimes you can see her ribs; sometimes you can’t. they flicker like an old grainy movie under her skin, and they feel like sharp magma in your palms. they’re structure — they protect her. hold her there if you want her to feel like this house isn’t caving in on herself.
her chest. promise her you’d never want anything more or anything less. if you don’t mean it, stop reading, and find someone else.
taste her collarbone. dip in the crevices and valleys and plant trees at the bottom. root down, cherish the nature, and never ever underestimate a girl’s collarbones. they’re a place to sleep when its -11 outside. write scripts on her collarbone. they are forever.
if you don’t know blueprints to her neck with your eyes closed from tracing it with your mouth, you’re doing it wrong. learn it. memorize it. you better know her pulse like counting with your dominant hand. kiss it like it’s her mouth. her neck will change over time, yes. but make sure you can change with it.
kiss her before she brushes her teeth. make fun of her morning breath. kiss her after, and make fun of the flavor of her toothpaste. kiss her when she’s angry and throwing the vase your mother bought her, and kiss her when she can’t stand and she bubbles over with tears like hot water. kiss her if she’s laughing and tell her it’s because she makes you happy. kiss her if she won’t stop talking because you want to taste her voice. kiss her when she isn’t talking because you miss it. kiss her in the shower and kiss her everywhere. if it’s raining, kiss her, and kiss her again when she calls you a cliche. kiss her in public because you want them all to know, and kiss her in private because you don’t need them to either. god, just kiss her on the mouth. nothing else matters. just fucking kiss her.
a poem i wrote last night (via rvmorse)