“You pull on me too hard,
and I end up spilling underneath
your bed like a bottle of pills that don’t fit
right anywhere else.
Today, for the first time,
I have decided to say no to all the poems.
I have decided to say no to all the mistakes.
I tried to stitch myself up
so I’d be pretty enough
to be loved by you,
and I never thought about what I wanted to become
for myself.
Well, today I am saying no to your hands.
The way they hold my hips like they belong there.
Didn’t anyone teach you not to pry?
Today, I am turning you into a grocery list
and today, I am forgetting to go to the store.
You don’t like the way I look when I am honest,
so I am going to start telling the truth all the time.
On the way home from this tragedy,
I won’t remember to apologize,
so stop waiting for it.
I know what you thought when I told you
I loved like healing.
You thought it meant all soft lips and silk fingers,
but if you have ever been bruised
then you know all about the purple of strength.
There is nothing soft about it,
and I refuse to be an exception just to make
this easier to look at.
I think it’s supposed to hurt a little.
I think that makes it easier to let it go.”
— Y.Z, the yellow bruises from that boxing match (via rustyvoices)

She is not “my girl.”

She belongs to herself, and to all of the world. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.

How much more blessed can I be?

— Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist   (via agentlemenscoup)

(via rustyvoices)

“There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”
— Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (via observando)

(via rustyvoices)

“When he decides he doesn’t love you anymore,
here is what you do: Move on quietly. Love yourself
loudly.”
© 2014 Karese Burrows (via fluerishing)

(via rustyvoices)

“Your knees bruise easily
like summer fruit that is too ripe and too ready
to be forgiven.
Tonight, you are the loudest prayer in the room,
and nobody notices.
Maybe by this time tomorrow
your shaking hands will already have all the answers,
but you’ll never know until you finally start trusting them
the right way again.”
— Y.Z, for my future daughter (via rustyvoices)

70years:

there is a wolf at the door and he is 37 years old. there is a wolf at the door and he believes in nothing. the wolf at the door is scared because when he walks in the forest all the twigs break before his feet touch them and the leaves crunch before his paws have a chance to crunch…

“There’s no story here.
I let you flirt with me
because I’m lonely.
I let the dinner party go on
as long as I can and then I pull the tablecloth out from underneath
us until I’m the only
dish that hasn’t fallen to the floor.

I don’t think I have it in me,
the fairy tale you’re talking about.
The one where I call you back
and sound like the princess,
all hopeless and helpless in love.
Most times I’m satisfied
with just being wanted,
because I’m still my own and
you still can’t stand it and God,
it tastes good,
the air on the way back to my place, alone as ever.

Give me a feeling. Any feeling.
I’ll chew it up and spit out
something pretty,
tie the tenderness with my tongue
and hand the cherry stem to you,
all mangled and gorgeous.

I talk so much for someone who
has nothing to say.

Yeah, I’m full of it.
Yeah, I’ve already thought about
fucking you in every single
place we’ve walked by and no,
I’m not gonna do anything about it.
But I will call you at three in the
morning and kiss you
until you’re sure something
else is going to happen,
then I’ll say goodnight, belly full
of satisfied.

I’m actually vicious.
A sliver of me is stone and that’s the
only place I let you touch because
it’s the only place that won’t
remember you.

So, okay, maybe there’s a story here.
Maybe it’s not the one I thought
it was,
but at least it’s something.”
Caitlyn Siehl, Something Pretty (via alonesomes)
“At my funeral I do not want
doves or a bed of roses.
You know how much I hate roses, anyway.
Have my sister wear that outfit
she never had enough confidence
to wear
with those shoes that never
quite match with anything.
Hire a priest to give a sermon
about how he lost his virginity
or about the flat tire he got
on the way to his divorce court date.
Do not stifle your giggles
or feel guilty when you smile
at my uncle who is falling asleep
in the pew.
It’s okay to delight in unconventionality.
After the service,
I want you to hold hands with the person
you love the most and tell them
they need to use more hand lotion.
I want you to text your boyfriend
a poem that describes his
“shit brown eyes”
and how much you adore them.
On the way to the cemetery
blast The Ramones or anything
from Nirvana’s Incesticide album
and scream all the lyrics
incorrectly.
When my casket is lowered into the ground,
do not wipe your eyes or your nose.
Let the wind take away your mess.
When they begin to cover me with dirt
and flowers that pricked your fingers
with thorns,
whisper to my family about how you still
haven’t forgiven me for breaking your
favorite coffee mug.
Maybe you will feel uneasy,
or maybe your lips will tremble.
But as you exhale
and fill your lungs with dry air,
listen to me tap against
the wooden walls of my tomb
and let the rhythm guide the beating
of your heart.
It is okay now.
It will always be okay.”
Kimberly Siehl | At my funeral it will be okay (via hangingwallflower)

(via alonesomes)

alonesomes:

Let me tell you how you will be loved.
Well and honest.
Patiently and reverently.
Truly and unapologetically.
With the lights on. With the lights off.
With no one but the moon watching.
With everyone watching.
Bravely. Freely.
Always. Closely. Happily.
Let me tell you where you will find
that love.
In your own hands first, baby.
In your own damn hands.

curious-melody:

words from the magnificent mind of http://alonesomes.tumblr.com

(via alonesomes)

gazesmeet:

note i wrote to myself during school last week 

(via alonesomes)

“Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks”
— Richard Siken, Crush (via s-w-e-e-t-l-i-t-t-l-e-miss)

(via alonesomes)

“She never saw God in her fits—
not the way the others did: what if

God was a vulture licking her clean, her words
a machine-hand rigging her legs back

as she sang, her mind a sack of apologies
emptied.”
— Rochelle Hurt, “The Humility of St. Teresa of Ávila,” published in Tupelo Quarterly (via pacificaly)

(via alonesomes)