i-write-trash-not-poetry

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— Oscar Wilde

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— soulinkpoetry

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That is love: when he pulls his mouth from the salt of your grief; and comes away crying, too.

Logan February, "Made of Stone"

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— R. Arnold

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— nn. (via eternaldroplets)

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I hope you know how much it hurts sometimes

How much it eats away in me

These casual insinuations you make

The remarks,

The hard truths,

The unbearable weight of our situation.

I hope you know how much of me you have control of

Would it ease away your worries?

Would it change how you feel?

Would you cry less?

Because everytime you do something in me just dies

I hope you find peace where I give you chaos

A solace to tranquil your troubled mind

I hope my absence calms your troubled mind

[i-write-trash-not-poetry]

Sometimes you need to sleep, sleep a lot. Not to escape, but to rest your soul from your feelings. Because everything, absolutely everything devours you. Completely.

—Brain

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— Friedrich Nietzsche

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— J. W. Goethe

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— Franz Kafka

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—Andrea Gibson, "Good Light," Lord of the Butterflies

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— Anne Michaels, from "Infinite Gradation," originally published in October 2017

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— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

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i look at a picture of me

as a little kid,

and i hold it close to my heart.

don't worry, baby girl.

i know now how to keep you safe.

K. C. Kasten