Oh the glory when you ran outside with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied and you told me not to follow you.
desenharts:

by Becca Stadtlander

desenharts:

by Becca Stadtlander

There were days when it looked like love,
especially if you turned down the volume.
But even if you didn’t.
Bus rides asleep on each other’s
shoulders, sharing an ear-bud
plugged into a song
as if sharing a secret.

Afternoons where we stayed in
our pajamas and played video games
after he bought us twin bodega sandwiches
and remembered mine without the meat.

And while I look back
on the memories with equal, if not more
repulsion, I know that I wasn’t an idiot
to stay. That my heart invented
its own verb which meant To Love
The Dog Who Licks The Scar It Gave You.

On a dirty bar couch on Valentine’s Day
he said I would fight with you every morning
if it meant I could kiss you at night and at the time
it didn’t sound like the Codependent National Anthem
or a vending machine where you put in fury
and get out passion

or even like the things I read now
in pamphlets—the ones I thrust upon other women
like my own righteous gospel—

it sounded like the sweetest thing
he’d ever said to me. A poem
I could fold real small and carry
around in my locket, not noticing, for months
how it also kind of
choked.

Megan Falley, “The Balance” (via oofpoetry)
arsvitaest:

Detail of kimono with flying cranes, Japan, ca. 1910-30Rijksmuseum

arsvitaest:

Detail of kimono with flying cranes, Japan, ca. 1910-30
Rijksmuseum


Clémence Poésy - Madame Figaro - August 2014

Clémence Poésy - Madame Figaro - August 2014

She smoked because she craved something to do with her hands, that delicate interplay of light and cup and first inhale. Craved the repetition of it. It was so difficult sometimes to be still in a room, alone with oneself. To bare oneself to the lonely.
Kate Zambreno, Green Girl (via misswallflower)
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