writingsforwinter:

Are you sleeping with someone else he asks;

I shake my head no, but my eyes probably tell a different story:

that every time he walks into a room my heart explodes,

and not even a specially-trained SWAT team

could clean up the mess it left behind;

his mouth gives me water damage an ocean would only

dream of. He leaves his underwear wherever he removes it,

in bed, in the living room, sometimes even in the front hall

if we’re both in a good enough mood, and I’ll find it

like a puddle on the floor, a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Am I too boring, he inquires, but he forgets about the time

the rainstorm in New York City forced us to run three miles

just to hitch a taxi, and he carried me piggyback

the whole way, until we got in the back seat and he took off

all my wet clothes when the driver wasn’t looking

and gave him an extra tip when it dropped us off at home.

Octopuses are jealous of how good a lover he is

with only two arms; ships would fall to pieces and slowly sink

at the sound of his voice; peanut butter wishes it could

stick to the roof of his mouth.

Did I say something wrong, he begs, but the pickup lines

he scrawled me on the back of a napkin

when we first met in a bar would put

even e.e. cummings to shame. (He once brought

a bouquet of fresh pears to my office and serenaded me

with “i carry your heart with me” in my cubicle.)

So when he finally asks what’s wrong, I don’t have the heart

to tell him that he’s really just too good for me,

and I’m afraid that one day he’ll wake up and realize

that he could sleep with so many better women.

When I leave, I place the box filled with my hair beneath his pillow

so that he’ll always have a few pieces of me

to remember me by, and take one last look at his sleeping face

before shutting the door quietly behind me.

synthetic-synaesthesia:

We were only twelve years old when you brought up the subject of death for the first time. You told me that you felt like Rome in July, except the fire in you had been burning for six years instead of six days, and you couldn’t find a way to put it out. You asked me what the fastest way to kill yourself was. You said you wanted an instantaneous death, with very little pain so that your mother wouldn’t weep too much at your funeral, and so your little brother would rest assured with the knowledge that you hadn’t suffered in dying.

I thought we were invincible but you rolled up your shirt sleeve and showed me every parallel line you had carved into your skin: as if your sadness was infinite, and could never be held or cured by anything other than the blade across your flesh.

Once again you asked me What is the fastest way to die? And this time I did not mistake the quiver in your voice for laughter, or the shadows in your eyes for fatigue, or the question on your lips for a rhetoric.

And so in an attempt to quench the flames that burned your erratic heartstrings, I replied:

i. The fastest way to die is the same as the fastest way to live; a bullet’s path captured in the frames of a thousand polaroids.

ii. Grow old. Grow so old that your skin wrinkles with age and turns into a map of your heart worn on every part of your body, not just sewn into your sleeve for anyone to steal.

iii. Laugh. Laugh harder than you ever have before, laugh until all the laughter is drained from you and you are left with a collection of crow’s feet running like lifelines from the corners of your eyes to the palms of your hands.

iv. Run. Run as far as you can, keep running until your legs burn with pain, and then run a little farther. Because that burning sensation is caused when your body runs out of oxygen and has to break itself down to keep you going, and that is the feeling of being alive.

v. Write, even when you have nothing to write about. Draw, even if you suck at drawing, because in Picasso’s first painting his horse was crooked and his people were floating heads, and greatness is not something you are born with it is something you grow into. So draw your sadness. Draw the melancholy starlight that is flooding out of you because you dreamt too much as a child of faraway lands and happily ever afters and somewhere on the tight rope that is growing up you lost them in the balancing act.

vi. Dream. Dream of the things you wanted as a kid but the world told you were impossible. Dream them anyways. Because there is a whale on this earth who sings his song at 52-Hertz; a pitch that no other whale can hear, let alone translate into their own tongue. Yet still he carries on singing each and everyday, hoping that one day he’ll be heard.

vii. Skip class. Call in sick to work. Turn your kitchen into a liquor store and lose yourself on the cold tile as you attempt to drown your sorrows. Ignore the fact that they’ve learned how to swim, and allow yourself to pretend that you’ve succeeded. Do what it takes to stay, without staying.

viii. Stay, just a little longer, please.

ix. There is no such thing as instant. Even if you get hit by a car and everyone says At least he died instantly, it won’t be true. Because for the few moments that metal collided with bone, you will feel pain in every crack and crevice of your soul.

x. Do not rush death. Wait to die until you are old and loved and surrounded by pulses that beat in time with yours.

xi. Call me every time that the beast of Depression runs rampant through your mind, tearing through your happiness and destroying your hope. I will mend you back together again.

xii. Remember that when Pandora opened her box and released everything evil into the world, she also allowed hope to escape.

(Source: siriusbingers)

allthesaintswereschizophrenic:

the-gaps-in-space:

kurtslovechild:

radiolocked:

isavamp:

Pixiv ~ 

THIS IS BEAUTIFUL ;;;;;

FUCK EVERYTHING I AM LEGIT CRYING NOW

THESE AREN’T TEARS, I SWEAR.

tamburina:

I tried to leave you, I don’t deny
I closed the book on us, at least a hundred times.
I’d wake up every morning by your side.
The years go by, you lose your pride.
The baby’s crying, so you do not go outside,
and all your work it’s right before your eyes.

Goodnight, my darling, I hope you’re satisfied,
the bed is kind of narrow, but my arms are open wide.
And here’s a man still working for your smile.

Leonard Cohen