“I think of happy when I think of you
so wherever you are I hope you’re happy
I really do
I hope the stars are kissing your cheeks tonight
I hope you finally found a way to quit smoking
I hope your lungs are open and breathing your life
I hope there’s a kite in your hand
that’s flying all the way up to orion
and you still got a thousand yards of string to let out
I hope you’re smiling
like god is pulling at the corners of your mouth
cause I might be naked and lonely
shaking branches for bones
but I’m still time zones away
from who I was the day before we met.”—(via dfishhhh)
“she has so many knots in her hair because we are desperate in our fucking. Maybe desperate is not the right word. Think: necessary. Think: éclat. Think the opposite of mediocre and then continue to think that until you grow bored. She is always digging, I am always grabbing, and there is probably something else missing here. When I think about her past, I think about space and how both of them make no sense to me. They are both so big, and I have never slept in a house that large. I get tired just thinking about starting another poem. I write in my journal I could talk about orgasms all day. It is hard to be happy without beer. I am working on my stereotypes. My favorite sitcoms are the ones with the pretty wives, the heavy husbands who wear uniforms to work. Is anyone else concerned about the space around their cuticles? If marijuana is a gateway drug, then what is a blowjob? It is hard to be happy when the best part of your day is agreeing with the ambivalent weather. I like it when married women don’t look at me. Sturdy beds are never overrated. I’ve wanted to use this line for months: Where did all of the wedding
rings come from? If people paid to read my poems, I would pay someone to write me better poems. There is only one woman I want to fuck, and that scares the shit out of me.”—(via dfishhhh)
“Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings that puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly inside.”—Sigmund Freud (via c-oquetry)
and that’s it. that’s the phrase you’re gonna carry around with you until you walk into oncoming traffic because you’re too busy making
sure that you smile at everyone you pass. you’re gonna forget that
it’s not your job, to make people happy. you’re gonna forget that you used to believe that love wasn’t supposed to last forever, because with phones and computers and cameras on every street, it was impossible not to get sick of them. you’re gonna forget all of that good coping stuff. you’re gonna cling onto those last words like God whispered them to you before he disappeared. who gives a shit about happy? remember thinking that for a millisecond, before the sky caught fire? who gives a shit about happy? what about bones? what about better? you make me want to be better. you make my rib bones feel like wind chimes that sing whenever we kiss. fuck everything else. happy is a train that is always leaving by the time you get to the station, and you need something more than that. you always will.
maybe one day you’ll remember this. maybe you’ll hear me reminding you what a bullshit feeling happiness is, especially compared to the warmth and stability of complacency, of calm and content.
you don’t make me happy anymore.
good, that’s not what I was going for. we can never be happy, only better. only closer.
“What did I think about before you touched my thigh? Let me say this: I’m going to touch you until my fingers fall off. If my fingers don’t fall off, I will hold your hand even if it’s sweaty. And let me say this: You are lovelier than clouds that look like lovely things. I have only loved a few times and the last time was when you rubbed my neck under the monkey bars. We weren’t much younger than we are now. I still have the same haircut. You still have only one dimple. It’s on your left cheek and it looks like you fell on a pebble. I love that it looks like you fell on a pebble. Let me say this: You taste like candy canes. There was a candy cane tree in my old neighborhood. My neighbor hung candy canes on the branches of the willow and I snatched them in the middle of the night. It was December when I rode my bike the quickest, like I was going somewhere to meet you. I like you more than the candy cane tree. Let me say this: I am uncomfortable in my own skin, so I hold your face. I hold your face and your hips but mostly your face. You have a lovely face. Let me say this: I love you like monsters like scaring little kids. I make a list of words I can use to diagram your body: petite, mellifluous, comely, milk, necessary. Please, forgive the humming; you see I rarely taste candy canes in March. When I don’t taste you I taste sweat. Not good sweat, mind you, sweaty sweat from the men’s locker room. Sometimes I taste pizza, but that’s only because I loved pizza first. Let me say this: My love for pizza was fleeting. I was young and naive and thought that extra toppings meant something. These are fine days because they end with you. Let me just say this: I’m going to kiss you until my lips fall off. If my lips don’t fall off, I will kiss up your spine until I run out of spine. Then I’ll start over.”—(via dfishhhh)
“how far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
how often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
where did it begin? what went wrong? and who made you feel so worthless?
if they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
all this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
and what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
how are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?”—(via dfishhhh)
“When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”—Steve Jobs (via thatkindofwoman)