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just a place for the words that my heart spills out

And the pain turned from I miss you
Into fuck you

Now only my bitter bitter tears
Kiss the corner of my lips
No longer sweet in their saltiness
My stomach turns in a different way now-
Not lovesickness. Not anymore

And I stopped turning everything beautiful into you
And remembered all that shone before:
Rediscovering the way the evening sun glints on my horse’s coat
And the notes of my best friend’s laugh
And I remembered
I heard the beating of my own heart in many other things
Before I heard it in your chest

No: I never needed you anyway

Read this when you are tempted

When he touches you
And traces fire over your skin
Remember that his hands
Are still ashy from where
He burned hers, too:

If you catch his eye and for
That second there’s lightning
And your hair stands on end
Do not let the increase in your
Heart rate trick you:
Lightning is dangerous
That adrenaline means fight or flight
Remember that.

And if you forget these things
And suddenly his lips are on your lips
And suddenly you are eighteen again
And suddenly everything else falls away
Think of her, and how she was here first,
And her and how she wasn’t
But she was here after:
Think of all the hers he has
And how he was your only him

Think of this
And let the honey
That dances on your tongues
Turn to bile

Do not let that lightning strike you
Again
It will leave not the delicate cobweb
Of scars on your heart like before:
This time it will break you
And you will lose you, too

At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare.

Caitlin Moran (via artvevo)

(via squeats)

your name feels like rocks in my mouth
but I keep saying it because
cutting my lips on our memories
is the closest I can get to lying in your bed

Fortesa Latifi (via madgirlf)
and I’m over it,
I’m over it,
I promise I’m over it.
But it still hurts sometimes.

Laura elizabeth ross  (via unlively)

(Source: lauraelizabethross, via unlively)

I wonder if your chest ever aches at the sound of my name the same way mine does whenever I hear yours.
Unknown (via unlively)

(via unlively)

fleurishes:

turning so many people into poems that sometimes I forget to turn them back

This is what I’m embarrassed about:
spying on you while you text other girls,
studying my pores in the magnifying mirror
that hangs in my mother’s bathroom.
The stretchmarks on my knees and the insides
of my elbows. He apologizes for the blood
in my panties but bites my neck, picks my skin
from his teeth. All of my friends are packing up
and moving to New York and I am too scared
to explore how this makes me feel in a poem.
An easy truth is my dresses are getting tighter.
I only feel like a girl after I’ve painted my nails
or waxed the dark shadow of hair between
my thighs. Funny how we believe anything
will make us smoother by rubbing it
into our skin. It takes a lot of mascara
to convince me of my own prettiness.

Kristina Haynes, “Feminine Worries” (via fleurishes)
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