Latest Posts by salinyay-blog - Page 8

I washed my broken heart with beach waves and sunsets. I stitched my battle scars with threads of leftover love. I stood in a sea of strangers, without hangover, whatsoever. I am every invisible painting on your skin. You wish they were from my lips and my fingertips. I am the silence in your living room You wish we could dance together on thirty-second floor without music on. I am those deep conversations you wish you could have from a stormy evening until sunny morning. But you didn’t get it, did you? Women like me don’t take weak men Men who couldn’t handle their chaos wouldn’t be able to handle ours. Men who come back would always be unwelcome. I was the decision you didn’t make. I was the war you didn’t fight for. I am a place you can’t come home to. There’s no point crawling back to me. I’m over you.

Shaine Salcedo, The City Doesn’t Hum Your Name Anymore (via wnq-writers)

note to self: don’t stop fighting

changing of the seasons - two door cinema club

I swallowed the entire ocean, just to make sure that you could never drown again.

dontforgetcoffee  (via wnq-writers)

Tears of joy fall down A crooked smile appears After all these years

 Nicholas A Browne, Haiku 446 (via wnq-writers)

An anchor doesn’t hold you back. It grounds you.

Bruce Adler (via wnq-writers)

relationships (2016)

You are as innocent as a bathtub / full of bullets.

Margaret Atwood, “Backdrop Addresses Cowboy” (via mythaelogy)

4. If it is true that the earth respires, That it speaks only to those Who command nothing– If it is true that the first man Was fashioned of corn. Of divine shit. Of dust– If a bale of cotton– If color is trance, And trance is to ride the back Of the first great bird In first flight– If the world has ended twelve times– If the atom is cognizant, coy; If light is both pow-wow And tango– If, at the final trumpet, Oil magnates will kiss the ankles Of earth-caked girls who traipse Along the highway’s edge, Hugging the mountain When trucks barrel past– If Satchmo. If Leadbelly– If wind on the horizon, Thundering the trees, Making all of our houses small–

Tracy K. Smith, from “The Nobodies” (via hypocrite-lecteur)

An excerpt from the poem Happy Poem by Sean Glatch (@7-weeks​); featured in his debut poetry collection 4:41 | buy it here!

My heart, calling from a phone booth / in the rain.

Sarah Morgan, from “Train,” Animal Ballistics (via tristealven)

You’re standing in a room you used to know so well, a hand on the doorframe when it starts. The walls blur and your shirt’s off; there’s a hand reaching for your waist. Almost an invitation. Almost something more. How many times has this body been almost touched? The world rights itself and you’re past the first exhibit. You move inside, past the books, the poems, the lists you almost finished. You’re sitting on the edge of a bed when it hits you again: a mouth on your mouth, a hand on your thigh. Almost an argument. Almost a mistake. You could call this the exhibit of personal significance. You move toward the window, making note of the sideshows playing out around you. The time you almost saw the streets of Spain. All the nights you almost saw the sun rise. All the times you almost reached out to someone but didn’t. Your mind’s moving someplace else now, to a series of snapshots. Eyes in different colors, blurry faces thrown back in laughter, hands poised around drawing pencils. Freckles on shoulder caps, tattoos in small corners of the body. Tell me, how many people have you almost loved?  Call this the art gallery. Call this the main attraction.

Kelsey Danielle, “Call Me a Series of Almosts” (via pigmenting)

In looking out upon the world, we forget that the world is looking at itself.

Alan Watts (via quotemadness)

Say you do start over 
& the deer in your brain start chasing rabbits. Say you decide to be less a creature of the earth and more a thing of air. The sun waiting on your arrival like you were always meant to be there. The moon looking you in the eye from afar and calling you by name.

Kelsey Danielle, “Your Edge Don’t Fit” (via pigmenting)

A lesson in forgetting:
 the past always heals faster
 when you’re not looking. The way we try and hold
 onto memories like they are more
 than water. The way we look 
into the pools of our past
 searching for minnows, searching for fish. A lesson in remembering:
 the water is always smoother
 in retrospect. Where are the waves? Where are the currents? The way in which we tell ourselves we could do it again. Dive in again.
 Make it out alive. Last night, your voice touched me in my sleep;
 I woke up thinking about waterfalls.

Kelsey Danielle, “A Lesson in Forgetting” (via pigmenting)

Let me be young & disrespectful. Let me leave my plate an unfinished slaughter. Let me spend & eat until I, & no one else, says I’m done.

— Fatimah Asghar, from “Look, I’m Not Good At Eating Chicken,” published in The Rumpus

anthem - leonard cohen

I’m trying to dig myself out of this hole I’ve found myself in But the dirt just keeps falling through my fingertips

@existential-words (via existential-words)

I know I used to live without you but that was before I knew the brown speckles of your eyes or the softness of your lips. Before your laughter became my favourite sound and your smile the brightest part of my day. That was before I fell in love with you. Now you’re a part of me like the blood in my veins or the air in my lungs and I need you just as bad. I can’t imagine a day without you and I hope I’ll never have to again.

(via ifthenightcouldtalk)