if i left my window opened, if i left my front door unlocked, how long would it take for you to crawl in beside me? how long before you came crawling in, curling your fingers around my throat, coating my tongue with all of the words i will always swallow. it’s been months since i last gave you an inch. months since i last turned on my shower and stood there like stone, turning ink black under the weight of you. yet there you are, waiting on the edges of my consciousness. tapping on my peripherals. sinking inside of me like a stone. you are monumental and trivial all at once, overwhelming and insignificant. just when i think you are big enough to shut out, i swallow you with the salt i lick from the corner of my mouth and look,
here we are again.

My pain was never beautiful or poetic. It was answering the phone mid breakdown and laughing like I was fine.

—(via emilymlarson)

(Source: kelseysrecovery, via kaitmpayne)

I am sick of milking my tongue of every god damned word i want to say. could you love me? i think of you sometimes and you’re smiling and i am thinking that maybe there’s some hope for me.


Anne Sexton, “The Truth the Dead Know”


Anne Sexton, “The Truth the Dead Know”

Sometimes, when it’s raining, I think about you. I think about you all the way over there, with all that ocean and all those years between us. I think about if you’re doing well, what your bedroom looks like, if you enjoy your job. I think about the times when there wasn’t any ocean between us and my time was your time. I think about when I knew the answers about you, because they were my answers as much as they were yours. Sometimes, when it’s raining, I wonder if it’s raining where you are too.

—Kat George, Sometimes, When It’s Raining  (via melodiexo)

(Source: larmoyante, via melodiexo)

i still hunger,
in ways that cannot be sated.
with echoing hallways inside of me
repeating the unmentionable
every time my stagnant

there’s a riot inside of me that wildly oscillates between cold indifference and being coldly indignant. i can no longer tell you what suffocates me; instead i am suffocated. by ex lovers who win women with the words i’ve carelessly leaked. by the oil slick of prying eyes that are too young to know how it feels to be sad enough that your gums bleed.

i honestly thought that i could try this one more time, with the best of intentions. focusing on less of my story and more of the storm. but instead im stuck on conjugating verbs so my words are less obvious. so this all is less obvious.

i am sad, and worse than that, i am sorry.