poetry – darknesstohislight

i am
afraid
that if i
open
myself i will not
stop pouring. (why do i fear
becoming a river. what mountain
gave me such shame.)

Jamie Oliveira, “Erosion”

hazyaffection:

hazyaffection // WELL I STILL BLEED OCCASIONALLY

yaoinami:

you’re all the fucking same to me now / 11.06.17

hazyaffection:

OLD CITY, OLD LOVE pt. 1

sorry I wrote our breakup poem before our four months / before I ever met your father or / before you met my cousin / sorry I’ve been planning this funeral for weeks and / you didn’t make it to the guest list / sorry every time you kiss me it tastes like ashes / sorry I’m always burning us down / sorry I can’t forgive you for making me your / fifth priority / sorry I made you / my first priority / i think about losing you and / it hurts but / oh my god / I’ve missed that ache.

it’s not over // lily rain (via wont-time-love-us)

I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love, / you won’t be able to see beyond it.

Warsan Shire, from “Backwards,” Her Blue Body

(via lifeinpoetry)

So it went too fast to fully process what happened,
But one minute I’m sitting on your bed and the next my clothes are scattered on your floor and your lips are on my neck,
And for the first time in months I didn’t think of him
So I do all the wrong things with you for all the wrong reasons,
And pretend that it’s more than it is
That I’m more than just a fuck to you, and you’re more than just another way to get over him

(via poisoned-words)

Then the men we try to love say
we carry too much loss, wear too much black,
are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love.
Then they leave, and we mourn them too.

What we own from “Our Men Do Not Belong To Us” (via funcionoacafe)

i only ever thought
there were two kinds of loves:
the kind you would kill for and
the kind you would die for.
but you, my darling,
you were the kind of love
i would live for.

o.g.k (via gyllenaal)

Softest of mornings, hello.
And what will you do today, I wonder,
to my heart?
And how much honey can the heart stand, I wonder,
before it must break?

Mary Oliver, from Long Life: Essays and Other Writings; “Poem: Softest of Mornings” (via luthienne)