Twenty Six Scribbles

I have always wanted to be a poem, but they told me that the closest I can get is poet, so I am trying to become one of those instead. You are looking at my best attempt.

July 28, 2014 11:53 pm
"Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn’t, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay."

Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head (via splitterherzen)

(via msfrannyglass)

July 27, 2014 5:28 pm


100% of people who tell you you’re too sensitive are saying it because they don’t want to be held responsible for your reaction when they mistreat you

(via msfrannyglass)

July 26, 2014 11:20 pm
"When I was seven, I wanted to glue autumn leaves back onto the branches they fell from, returning each to its home. Yesterday, I stepped on a pile of damp leaves on the sidewalk. When I heard them crunch beneath my feet, I felt nothing."

Kayla Hollatz, This is what growing up looks like. (via thetalltwig)

(via mariannapaige)

4:36 pm
"You always wanted me to tell you about my day
so here goes:
This morning, I burned the toast
and then the eggs
but I ate them anyway.
If these are the motions,
I guess I’m going through them.
I managed to shower
(slowly, because I couldn’t
get my hands to stop shaking).
I’m sorry I don’t have anything
more compelling to say. I don’t
even know if you’re listening.
I am not suffering in a way
that makes a good story.
I wish I could make something up,
say that I did not think about you
in the middle of tying my shoes
and start to cry all over again, but
nonfiction doesn’t care about dramatic timing
or a neat little resolution, so I wonder
how missing you is supposed to teach me anything."

wesley king | I guess this is all I can do for you now (via bombsinyourbones)

(via bombsinyourbones)

July 23, 2014 10:21 am
"How quietly we endure all that falls upon us."

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns (via larmoyante)
July 21, 2014 9:06 pm
"Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, 'I am falling to the floor crying,' but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well."

Richard Siken (via wordsnquotes)

(via inkywings)

9:03 pm
"There’s a dream where we break all the dishes in my kitchen and then
eat the pieces.
I know it’s a dream because we are still alive after we swallow.
It sounds more like a nightmare,
and it would be, except that we are together,
so even the fractured ceramic is tender as we chew it.

There’s a dream where we want our own world,
so we cut it out of blue and green paper like a science project,
except your silhouette is every piece of land
and my spine is every mountain range laying across you.

Here are the broken plates
mending inside of us, healing soft and pliant, bending like the necks of swans,
forgetting that they are glass.
Maybe we can forget, too.
I can kiss you where it’s sharp
until you can’t remember how the pain
made you someone to be afraid of.

There’s a dream where nothing bleeds, but everything is alive,
where broken things can be made
unbroken just by wishing it.

Let me tell you about the earth
and what it looked like before we
got our hands on it.
Let me tell you about the earth and
how it broke apart like a plate on
the tile floor.
We all know what it is to be unmade.
In a dream, we tried to forget."

Caitlyn Siehl, "Drift" (via prewars)

(via inkywings)

9:02 pm
"The thing is, most of me is exhausted.
My eyelids and my fingertips and
a large part of my fleshy bits.
Most of me wants to be forgiven.
Most of me wants to be held by the elbows
and pulled towards a quiet place and
sat down on a street curb and nodded at,
smiled to, loved on.
Under my nails, there is flour and soot
but I can’t will the soap to go that far.
Under my mattress, there are pages and pages of this
but I can’t will my hands to go as far as stopping,
to go as far as letting go.
Now, you’ll lift your chin and tilt your head
like you have the answer and you’ll tell me
to write some poetry.
But I’ll laugh into my cup and
I’ll tell you that even when my house is empty
and my family has been gone for weeks,
I pretend to take the trouble of crying quietly,
so no one in the next room will hear,
so no one in the next room will worry.
At this, you’ll probably stand and push your chair in
and when you’re gone, I’ll tell the ghost of you
that I’m fucking lonely
and ask whether you can find me
a good enough metaphor
to fix that shit."

Most of Me | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)
9:00 pm

Don’t get too close, you hear me?
You’ll start a fire and it will become
too beautiful for me to destroy.

Go home. Put down your drink.
Kiss your mother. Let her ask about the scar
at your cheekbone and don’t remind her that
it’s been there since the fifth grade.
Let her run her finger over it,
let her love you the way she does,
soft as yarn, unbending as foreign language.

Don’t come back here, you hear me?
Not for another few forevers.
Not until your edges blur, until I forget
the arch of your brow, the jut of your chin.
Not until I stop muttering for you
after just the third sip.

Don’t call me more than once, you hear me?
When you do, I’ll hear it ring and I’ll let it go.
Don’t forget to leave a message. Breathe
so the static catches onto your lungs and
makes that silvery rasp I love.

Tell the silence you need me. Tell it you’ll be fine
if I don’t need you back. Tell it you remember
the way I smoked like everyone was watching,
like every kiss was the one before quitting.
Tell it you miss me. Tell it you’re not lying.
Stop when the beep sounds.

Don’t call again, you hear me?
Learn to be your own battlefield.
Learn to walk to the centre.
Learn that I am on the other side but
I don’t want to shoot either.
Learn to put your weapons down
and walk away.


Instructions for Him | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)
8:56 pm

Last night, I ran for the nearest bus passing
but let it forget to let me on.
Last night, the lake was a teaspoon
of black sky and somewhere,
you unremembered my name.

Every doorframe in my house
seems to wait for you.
The sink leaks and the dishes
fall out of my hands.
They never break,
just clang and clang
and remind me how quiet
everything is afterwards.

Soon, though, I’ll wrap myself in lace
and cut my hem a little lower
and walk the night alone.
Soon, I’ll holds my heels in my hands
and the pebbles on the sidewalk
will hurt my feet.
Soon, I’ll be okay.

I miss you
doesn’t mean I want you back.
I miss you
doesn’t mean I need you to fix this.
I miss you only means
one day I won’t.


Soon | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)