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.

April 17, 2014 1:20 am

A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.

Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
undress, unlearn.
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.

A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.


Caitlyn Siehl, Singular (via alonesomes)

(via amaneciera)

April 16, 2014 7:03 pm
"I aim to be
but my
hands still
and my voice
isn’t quite

Michelle K., Earning Your Roar. (via goghst)

(Source: michellekpoems, via bryarly)

April 15, 2014 5:42 pm
"the only thing I dream about anymore is leaving
suitcases full of palpitating hearts
duffel bags ripping at the seams
a passport torn nearly in half
my boarding pass says “Anywhere But Here”"

Fortesa Latifi (via madgirlf)
April 14, 2014 6:11 pm
"Before I am your daughter,
your sister,
your aunt, niece, or cousin,
I am my own person,
and I will not set fire to myself
to keep you warm."
April 13, 2014 9:36 pm
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better."

Anne Lamott
April 12, 2014 7:36 pm
"As I grow older,
I realize that the more years we collect,
the less attachments we have with others.
We stop hugging when we say hello or goodbye
and we drop the I when we say “love you!”
as if we wanted no personal attachment
to such a heavy phrase.
we grow up and graduate college and swear we will
find ourselves,
but all we do is hide."
April 11, 2014 6:20 am
"We all create stories to protect ourselves."

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves (via sunst0ne)

(via sunst0ne)

April 10, 2014 5:33 pm
"i will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate & forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh

bukowski (via fingerbruised)

(via amaneciera)

April 9, 2014 5:37 pm
"You don’t make me happy anymore.”

and that’s it. that’s the phrase you’re gonna carry around with you until you walk into oncoming traffic because you’re too busy making
sure that you smile at everyone you pass. you’re gonna forget that
it’s not your job, to make people happy. you’re gonna forget that you used to believe that love wasn’t supposed to last forever, because with phones and computers and cameras on every street, it was impossible not to get sick of them. you’re gonna forget all of that good coping stuff. you’re gonna cling onto those last words like God whispered them to you before he disappeared. who gives a shit about happy? remember thinking that for a millisecond, before the sky caught fire? who gives a shit about happy? what about bones? what about better? you make me want to be better. you make my rib bones feel like wind chimes that sing whenever we kiss. fuck everything else. happy is a train that is always leaving by the time you get to the station, and you need something more than that. you always will.
maybe one day you’ll remember this. maybe you’ll hear me reminding you what a bullshit feeling happiness is, especially compared to the warmth and stability of complacency, of calm and content.
you don’t make me happy anymore.
good, that’s not what I was going for. we can never be happy, only better. only closer."

happy | Caitlyn S.  (via modernmethadone)

(via me-sexual)

April 8, 2014 10:15 pm
"Sometimes, carrying on, just carrying on, is the superhuman achievement."

Albert Camus, The Fall (via observando)