a continuous collection of smudged screens and illiterate ink.

{all original works are tagged with quitethefallacy. if you're looking for something, you should find it there.}

you'd let her (mis)lead you off of a cliff.

And this is how we danced: with our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August

turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers

sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned

into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart

there are two headless people building a burning house.
There was always the shotgun above the fireplace.

Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god
to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car,

the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive,
put down the phone. Because the year is a distance

we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how
we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say:

This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue.

- Ocean Vuong, “Home Wrecker” (via overwhelmington)

(Source: pigmenting, via deeplystained)

Last night, I wrote this poem because I forgot to call you.

I say “forgot” because it sounds less desperate than saying “I dialed your number five times but never pressed send,” than saying “I resisted the urge to drive thirty miles to your house just to lodge a noise complaint,” than saying “the thought of you is still in my brain and it’s making a racket, so please turn down the volume.”

See, nothing about this is poetic when it’s been six months and you’re still all I can think about. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to clean up your messes and not overstay your welcome? My mother taught me that there will always be people who have pieces of my heart, but fuck that, my heart’s an empty bottle for you — my heart’s an abandoned quarry.

I’m so tired of your late-night, high-volume escapades, so sick of all this one-sided fighting that you aren’t a part of anymore. The least you could do is show up at my door again so I could slam it in your face. The least you could do is pretend you miss me too.

After six months of all this noise, I’m learning that you were always a loaded gun, baby, and you loved to make me scream. I was always bloodshot, bullet-wound, gut-wrenched lonely. You were always this loud, this deafening and heart-breaking, I was just half-in-love and tripping over my chest and, baby, I didn’t want to hear the way everyone said you’d tear me apart just to watch me bleed.

Seems like I’m reaping it all now, rows upon rows of the poetry that wasn’t ever about me. Seems like I should learn how to plant something other than my heartache. Seems like I’m always breaking over you somehow, six months of wine glasses shattering from the sound of your voice.

Seems like I’m always dialing your number these days, but baby
I swear I’ll never call again.

- Last Night’s Poem | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

observationalistic:

what’s it like to take
a girl out on a date? what’s
it like to pick her up from
her house and have her smile
that uncontrollable-involuntary
smile (she’s that happy to see me)?
and what’s it like to bring her
back and kiss her until she
can’t help herself but to ask:
wanna come inside? can you
show me what that’s like?

[do things like that
happen in real life?]

(via verrloren-reblogs)

We met today
I don’t know how to describe it
Something keeps whispering
In my ear, ‘This is it
This is why you’re here’
My eyes met your’s today
And in that moment
I swear, life my began
- G.M.C. “Life” (via museofmisery)

(via verrloren-reblogs)

How do you trust someone who keeps lying? Sincerely, Anonymous

5000letters:

You don’t.

I thought for sure
that my mind was
vacant;
that the last of my
sanity had been evicted
but,

there must still be someone upstairs…
shh- listen!
You can hear the
quickened footfalls
matching pace with my pulse.
She is running

faster than she’s ever
ran before. She’s
picking up dust
from the frayed carpets
and causing it to
fall from the
caving ceilings.
You really shouldn’t
breathe this
in

so she holds her breath.
She’s crushing the glass
of dirty mirrors
with her fists
and it’s not until she sees
the blood
that she gasps for air.
But you really shouldn’t
breathe this
in,

this toxic mix of
mold and must and
moth balls.
Her bones are as weakened
as the support beams
that criss-cross in
the attic.
I am surprised she
didn’t collapse right
then and there
but I knew she would
eventually,

it had only ever been
a matter of time.
She knew
that she would be
abandoned-
no one
likes living with a
ghost of a girl.
She didn’t like it
either…
shh- listen!
Story says,

you can still hear the sound
of her screaming
as she fell from
the window
echo through the halls;
you can still find
the note
whose faded letters read,
“I jumped.”
She had nowhere left
to run
and she knew,

it had only ever been
a matter of time.

- a b a n d o n e d
I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you. - Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus (via wordsnquotes)

(via wordsnquotes)

loneliness is the house I wanted to live in
before I met you.
a place where nothing ever happens,
and I’m safe because of it.
you changed the ending.
took the wings off my airplane heart
and didn’t let it fly out of your greedy hands.
now you say you’re leaving
and miles away Rome falls.
its buildings crash to their knees after rising to meet you
for so long.

an origami sailboat
reminds you how sorry the
rivers are for falling in love
with temporary things.
now you say you’re leaving,
and miles away engines break
apart in the sky.
you look at me and say
‘here.
here is a kingdom of promises I meant to give you.
i’m sorry their crowns keep falling off,
but it’s the best I could do.’

now you say you’re leaving
and miles away
icarus flies too close to the sun.
he knows exactly what he’s doing.
he always meant to leave through the
light.

- Y.Z, legend has it (via rustyvoices)

I. God didn’t exist before I met you. God was just a white noise, the static on the radio in a room so silent that the beat of your own heart is constantly reminding you how impermanent life is. I watched as the white noise turned to black and the radio shut-off, as if it were nothing but a dream but you put out the haunting melodies of sadness in my brain and how I’ve worshipped you ever since.

II. I think I lost my voice again. It came and it went throughout my early years and when I was on the verge of winning the tug-of-war against my very life I was choked from the thought of suicide, and words were just a memory, another sound that came through on that radio. Though your tongue may be sharp as the iron will I had against my very self you still cut me loose from the rope, and there are so many burns and scars on me. Even you caused a few. I’m back to where I was before you left, speaking through the memory of you, and it’s nights like these I wish I could thank you for saving me from myself. If only I could save myself from you.

III. The future terrifies me. Please, come back to where you were before, you were the only thing in my life that was constant and now everything is a variable, even the past. God just seems useless now, he hasn’t felt the way you used to make me feel, and when I look forward the weight of all these inevitabilities start weighing down on my being and my heart gives to the anxiety that comes with knowing you’re not alone. I have wondered if you were as in solitude as I have been maybe you’ll come crawling back beneath the static, but you deserve to hear the music. You deserve me to leave you alone.

IV. I hope Heaven forgives me just this once, but Goddamn you. No lover of mine will see me naked without the scar of your name burning into my collarbone as I try and heave this emptiness you’ve lodged deep within my lungs. When wintertime comes my breath is supposed to fog the air and instead this vaporous void leaks out of the space beneath my chest. You’ve made it so cold inside, you’ll never catch me wearing shortsleeves yet in summertime you broke my heart so in summertime I unzip at the seams. I need your breath pressed down into mine, I need the taste of your lips to murmur something softly into mine, I need the miasma of your touch upon my dirty soul but I can’t even find your hands, they’ve been calloused with my hatred towards you.

V. I can’t even see you anymore. Maybe this is why my vision has been faltering, or maybe this is why saltwater stings my eyes so much; you always had the deepest ocean eyes. I can drown endlessly in them, and as the shadow of first loves follow me down into the murky depths of your existence we’ve been searching for an answer as to why you walked away. I can’t do this on my own anymore, I think I’ve been drowning for longer than for me to stay alive. As the water floods my ears I hear the static of the past resurfacing. I need you to save me, before I kill myself in you.

- Reasons I Still Need you in my Life (via 7-weeks)

(via 7-weeks)

Once, someone put their hands
on me and since then all hands
have claws. All hands are red.
Yesterday someone held the
door open for me for no reason
and I ran all the way home;
there’s no such thing as being
too careful anymore. Once,
someone put their hands on
me and I forgot what
kindness was.
- anne, monster epidemic (via anneisrestless)

(via deeplystained)

soupery:

these puppies believe in you, and you should too

(via theodorazheng)

When a poet loves you he’ll paint his words outside the lines of your edges and contours. He will exhaust you with tales of “exes & ohs” and “x’s & o’s”. When a poet loves you he will withdraw his moleskin at three AM and take careful notes while you play knots and crosses on crisp white napkins at a rest stop.

You will know a poet loves you when he makes the bed before you get into it and when he hands you a cup of oolong tea and when he reads you Shel Silverstein before you close your eyes and call it a night. If he is a poet, he will love you in the way he eats spaghettiOs in silence while he spells out tacky haikus from across the table. To be loved by a poet is to sit through dramatic readings of Shakespearean sonnets and to keep a straight face through all three quatrains and that painful final couplet.

When you love a poet you begin to think iambic pentameter. You will want to write him into every sunset and sidewalk puddle. You will exchange stanzas as often as you’ll swap kisses. Your coffee tables, kitchen counters, and creaky floorboards will gather novels and anthologies and epics. You two will neglect commas because you are both too impatient to halt each other’s speech even if just for a moment.

- when a poet loves you // when you love a poet || I met the sweetest poet today who was all too willing to tell me about his girlfriend || (via vacataire)

(via vacataire)

I. You’re in my head and in my breath, my heart was the only thing big enough to store the both of us. Loving you felt like an asthma attack; loving you is a mental disease.

II. If vaccines could have prevented me from you I’d likely be an addict. You were my drug, and not the right kind - a dirty needle with a violent sting, I still feel at home when you rip apart my skin.

III. The doctors told me to “let it pass.” Just let it pass. You are the motion in my twiddling thumbs; you are my thoughts about the Universe.

IV. I’ve lost my fear of hospitals, I’ve lost my fear of love. Neither of them make sense anymore, and neither does the way you left. Every time I walk out of hospitals I know what it was like for you to walk away from me.

V. I’m letting it pass. I’m letting it pass. I’m letting you pass me in the hallways without saying hello, I’m letting you off for the mistakes you have made, I’m letting this disease run it’s course and trying to keep up with it on the dirt path of my veins. I’m letting you pass, but they forgot to teach me in health class how to let it go.

- Reasons I Can’t Just “Let it Pass” (via 49dusks)

(via 7-weeks)

bl-ossomed:

debosaurus:

manicpixiedreamskrillex:

trying-to-hide-the-pain:

cartgirl:

ohhhimjustagirl:

thinspocean:

still-moving-on:

m-isguidedghos-t:

Boys don’t understand the horrible view girls have of themselves

AMEN

Literally fml

I’ll always reblog this I think

I should show this to guys when they make comments.

no you dont understand how fucking accurate this is. 

The view if myself is the view that is the chub jest on my entire body

THE FACT THAT THIS IS CONCIDERED A AFUCKING HORRIBLE VIEW OF HOW GIRLS SEE THEMSELVES PISSES ME OFF AND MAKES ME WANT TO STAB MY BED OKAY

LADIES

LISTEN TO ME

YOU ARE FIRECRACKERS

YOU ARE A BLIZZARD

YOU ARE AN APOCALYPSE OF LOVE AND RAGE

YOU ARE NOT AND SHOULD NEVER BE DUMBED DOWN TO WHAT YOUR GODDAMN PERCENTAGE OF FAT TO MUSCLE IS 

YOU ARE BROKEN BONES AND SCRAPED KNEES AND THROATED SCREAMS AND YOU 

ARE

BEAUTIFUL

IF YOU LOOK LIKE THIS, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL

IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE THIS, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL

IF YOU THINK YOU LOOK LIKE THIS, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL 

I AM SICK AND FUCKING TIRED OF SEEING WONDERFUL, SMART, TALENTED, WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL GIRLS HATING THEMSELVES BECAUSE OF AN UNREALISTIC EXPECTATION SET ON THEM AT A YOUNG AGE

YOU ARE PERFECT THE WAY YOU ARE

OWN IT

I’ve reblogged this before but I never saw that comment and I’m actually crying omg

Fuck I’m crying

(Source: lizbarfart, via altusmaceria)