Last year I abstained
this year I devour
without guilt
which is also an art…
Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems: 1965-1975 (via shylocks)
Tag: poetry
I’ll let her do that
and I’ll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor
love.
Charles Bukowski, This Then (via whyallcaps)
Sometimes,
I feel like ripping apart my skin,
and searching for a reason for why
I feel this empty.
Maybe my veins are tangled,
or something is lodged
in my ribcage.
Because it feels like
something inside of me is
missing or broken.
Unknown (via lexophil)
Hell exists.
it’s here.
3 a.m.
awake and
without you.
Beau Taplin, “Hell exists.” (via deindealer)
I do not like
divided hearts;
and if I give mine,
I give it whole.
JoseMaria Escriva (via pancettaamore)
And why get angry at Helen?
As if she singlehandedly destroyed those
multitudes of men.
As if she all alone
made this wound in us.
Klytaimestra in Aiskhylos’s Agamemnon, translated by Anne Carson (via elucipher)
I didn’t want to come here.
I never wanted my love to be poetry.
But now it’s all over the floor.
Now it lives amongst the trees.
We will never be what we were.
Brian S. Ellis, “The Last Payphone,” from American Dust Revisited. (via bostonpoetryslam)
That’s why I’m not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
Louise Glück, closing lines to “The Untrustworthy Speaker,” Ararat (HarperCollins, 1990)
1. Let’s be honest for once. I will love you fierce; I will love you terrible. I will carve out your heart, and you will be grateful for the end.
2. You accuse me of faithlessness, but I do believe in the light bursting from our skin, the divinity breaking our bones to pieces.
3. I was not born difficult; my father can attest to that, screaming it until he coughs up blood that his daughter was born without a spine.
4. History repeats itself, we know this much. History sings the same songs, fucks the same girls, drinks the same whiskey night after night in the saddest passion play the world has ever seen.
5. Maybe one day I won’t say your name like a penance, like I thought there was absolution in your veins instead of blood, instead of something so devastatingly human. I’m hunting for angels here, something divine and holy, something that will scrub me clean.
6. My mother says I need to prepare for the real world and maybe she’s right. I hope she’s right. I hope the ice in my chest is imagined, that one day I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.
7. We can only go forward; we can only let go. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
8. I am trying not to rot in this grave you dug me.
Emily Palermo, vii. (via starredsoul)
darknesstohislight 