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But I was left with all the loss, none of the reward. Stuck here lurching through my living, lurching from grief to grief. Just inertia, just tumbling forward.

Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!

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Alejandra Pizarnik, tr. by Yvette Siegert, from “Psychopathology Ward”, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972

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Charles Wright, from "The Southern Cross", The World of Ten Thousand Things: Poems 1980-1990 [ID'd]

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Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Pleasures (trans. Stefan Tobler) [ID'd]

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Ocean Vuong, “A Letter to my Mother that She Will Never Read” The New Yorker, May 2017 

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My life felt empty and unreal and I was embarrassed about its thinness, the way one might be embarrassed about wearing a stained or threadbare piece of clothing.

Olivia Laing, The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone

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Meng Chu, translated by Kenneth Rexroth, from The Orchid Boat: Women Poets of China

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Mysa (v.) — envision returning home after a long day, slipping into soft, comfortable clothing, and curling up on the couch with a warm blanket and a good book. The gentle glow of candlelight dances around the room, and perhaps a beloved pet nestles by your side. This is mysa the swedish art of embracing coziness and contentment, finding joy in simple, comforting moments that soothe the soul.

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Louise Glück, from Meadowlands; "Siren"

[Text ID: "I think now / if I felt less I would be / a better person."]

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haiku #23, tathev simonyan

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The Rose, Ariana Reines

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Nicole Homer, Underbelly

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Madwoman, Shara McCallum

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Ona Gritz, from Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability; "No"

[Text ID: "My hands / couldn't take you to the right place."]

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— v, from “the gravity poem” (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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Madwoman, Shara McCallum

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Courtney Marie Andrews, from Old Monarch: Poems; “If you are lucky”

[Text ID: “Hands will hold yours for longer than a minute, / maybe long enough to call it love, / stretching over years. / If you’re lucky, you will always remember / that moment, sweet as nectar.”]