If I must be wrung through the paradox — broken into wholeness, wring me around the moon; pelt me with particles from the dark side. Fling me into space; hide me in a black hole. Let me dance with devils on dead stars. Let my scars leave brilliant traces, for my highborn soul seeks its hell — in high places.
How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend.
There are songs that still feel like your teeth on my neck.
I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions, and him.. entirely and altogether.
Sometimes I think I’ve felt everything I’m ever gonna feel. And from here on out I’m not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I’ve already felt.
Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
I let you become my happiness; and that’s where I went wrong.
I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free… and laughing at injuries, not maddening under them.
I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
darknesstohislight 