“

A man that you met the month your heart was snapped in half walks in.

And then you remember how fragile you were, how you were so cracked open you made a fool of yourself in his bedroom.

How you were a baby doe learning how to walk again. How you kept saying “love me love me love me” in a whisper to his ear. How he heard “I’m open I’m broken hurry up and fill these holes.”

You will be 6 months removed from a night in his sheets.

You will simply look down at your book and say a thank you prayer to the god of your whole-again heart.

”
– Desireé Dallagiacomo, Poet Extraordinaire  (via phoenixburning)

(Source: earthgazing, via themoonshoney)

→ A blog for those who want to improve their craft.: I Break Like a Fever (Desireé Dallagiacomo)

spokenwordacademy:

I can’t hear anyone talk about love without thinking
plane crash. locked door. snapped matchsticks.

a choir of heartache. Every face, a costume of loss.
Trumpet voices in the second line marching band
out of my funeral home heart.

What I know about grief, I learned in a winter in New…

→ ||||||||: It's 2:00 AM

themoonshoney:

Sometimes I just want to hang myself from the letters of her name

Because that’s what it feels like

Months like coiling regret

Spitting

Silence

Cracked

And I wonder if he thinks about me still

If the past few months have been repeating themselves

If he ever sees me in the sinking sun like…

“I have buried you in every place I’ve been. You keep ending up in my shaking hands.”
– Bon Iver (via emtc)

(Source: seabois, via themoonshoney)

→ ||||||||: How to Refuse and Then Give In

themoonshoney:

1. It will come like a secret. It will slide under the door. It will be sealed in an envelope, kissed with a wink and you will want to open it.

2. Remember seeing your breath like words hanging in the cold, “I will never stumble.” Remember you didn’t say that, that was someone else’s promise to…

“

But the truth is,
there’s not enough miracles to go around, kid.

And there’s too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket, and for every answered prayer there’s a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can’t find answers is because the search party didn’t invite us.

And, Louis, right now, the crickets have arthritis, so there’s no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if we bent halos into melodies that could keep rhythm with the way our hearts beat, so we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying nine year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives

echo and grow
echo and grow
echo and grow

distant.

”
– Shane Koyczan, “The Crickets Have Arthritis” (via posteds)

(via themoonshoney)

inatoms:

“Why don’t you write me love letters?”

Little things can easily go unnoticed like the way my fingers trace poems into your palm, the way you hand me your cup of water and I take it and put it where my heart should be.  Or the many nights I’ve watched you sleep in the dim TV light, whispering these pale confessions in your ear hoping to become a dream within a dream for you, a ray of light, a lung, a home.

“Because I am a love letter.”

(via mikefrawley)