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i. I fell in love and the boy had blue eyes purple-blue like the bruises he left on my flesh with fingertips digging too hard and teeth cracking my skin periwinkle blue like the color of my veins fists clenched, knuckles white navy like the dark sky when he left me under a thousand dying stars

ii. I fell in love and the boy had green eyes dark forests, deep and deadly silent he choked me in my favorite olive jumper hands crushing down until no air was left tear-strained cheeks and lust between our thighs his kisses tender, his words brutal he left me when spring came and I watched bright green buds grow out of rotten earth

iii. I fell in love and the boy had grey eyes blueish grey like a frozen lake in december almost black like the hole inside my chest I offered my body on a silver plate thin, ashen skin over bleak bones he crashed my like a winter storm dark grey clouds on twisted skies I can still taste his kisses on my lips faint traces of punches in the pouring rain

iv. I fell in love and the boy had brown eyes fiery brown like a firestorm rushing in the desert whispered promises sweeter than chocolate soft kisses on my collarbone shadows touching in the secret alcove of an old lighthouse the faint pain of teasing a bite rust brown like the taste of old blood under your tongue his touches set me ablaze like unyielding flames on the open sea

- scorpio | gay from my chapbook S.T.A.R.G.A.Z.E.R

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Summer reading

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As strange as it sounds, I miss you in the same way that I miss the kiss of a tattoo gun. That soft addiction, the comfort of permanence, the flow of blood as the ink digs into my flesh and crawls under my skin. No matter how much it hurt I always knew it was what I wanted. Your touch always stained far deeper than the needle ever could.

xcjh (via wnq-writers)

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Splash your watercolor tears into my paintbrush eyes and I’ll never question why you cry so much. Hint your way into my thoughts. Give me a clue. A slight touch of your skin and I’ll never break your heart. Our lives were not supposed to be broken. Our smiles were supposed to be real. We were supposed to be in love, but now we’re just a quote. We were supposed to be poetry, but now, we’re just this single poem about silly kids who fell in too deep and never learned how to swim and they said that we ache past 5 am because waking up required that we ran on no sleep and I’m sorry, but I’m down to the last straw and I can’t find that single needle of hope that you left for us and I know these fucking run on sentences are forever, but isn’t that ironic? You find peace within those things. So hey, let’s last forever. Our definitions of forever… They were so different. You forgot about me forever, while I’ll remember you forever and baby, would you like to know something funny? The dictionary writes poetry too. Forever – without ever ending; eternally. Example: He will love you forever.

coldwater by mansions on the moon listen to this song and become poetry #2 // kiet chung (via poetryleftbyher)

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In me non c'erano difese immunitarie contro la bellezza.

Sabotaggio d'amore, Amélie Nothomb  (via fiore-di-mandorlo)

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Move your feet and feel it in the space between You gotta give yourself a moment, let your body be.

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Instead of teaching our daughters how to behave in a quiet, conservative manner so that they do not get raped, let’s teach them how to love each other like sisters, so fiercely that if they see another girl being harassed or hurt by a man in any way, shape or form, they descend upon him like fearless and lethal hawks in the wild.

Nikita Gill (via meanwhilepoetry)

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Do not give me normality. I do not want to know how quiet you have been, or how long have you been sane in your life. Show me what you hide behind that mask of indifference. Show me the parts you only dare to show in the absence of light. Show me how loud your monsters can be. I ache for your insanity. I achingly long for your exploding stardust, your madness.

Lukas W. // I want your madness (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)

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I punched a guy bc he was making rape jokes and one of the things he said was “what’s the difference between yes and no? Nothing” so I asked him if he’d care if I punched him in the face and he said yes but I did it anyway since there’s no difference between yes and no and that’s the story of how I gave someone a bloody nose

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Hey, friend. You’re gonna be okay. Make sure you’re getting sleep and eating, even if it feels like dookie. I love you so much. I love you so so so much.

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Conosco il sale della tua pelle secca dopo che l’estate divenne inverno della carne che riposa nel sudore notturno. Conosco il sale del latte che bevemmo quando dalle bocche si stringevano labbra e il cuore nel sesso palpitava. Conosco il sale dei tuoi capelli neri o biondi o grigi che si attorcigliano in questo dormire di bagliori bluastri. Conosco il sale che resta sulle mie mani come sulle spiagge rimane il profumo quando la marea cala e si ritira. Conosco il sale della tua bocca, il sale della tua lingua, il sale dei tuoi capezzoli, e quello della vita nell’incurvarsi con le anche. Tutto il sale che conosco è solo tuo, o è mio in te, o è tuo in me, una cristallina polvere di amanti intrecciati.

Jorge de Sena

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This poem is dedicated to those women Whose beauty is in their charm, In their intelligence, In their character, Not on their fabricated looks. This poem is to you women, That like a Shahrazade wake up Everyday with a new story to tell, A story that sings for change That hopes for battles: Battles for the love of the united flesh Battles for passions aroused by a new day Battle for the neglected rights Or just battles to survive one more night.

Octavio Paz, excerpt of No More Clichés (via mesogeios)

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i think poets like to repeat themselves because it makes the word sound more lovely more meaningful so i’ll say your name over and over again i’ll whisper it in my sleep and when i’m alone your name will sit at my tongue an arrow looking for a target and it’ll rattle my bow and my bones when i finally let it go

im gonna make poetry out of you /// christina hopp (via thesocietyofpoets)

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I write from pain. My writing will always be pain. My writing will always revolve around my pain. I can’t write any other way.

Writing keeps me tender. Writing is the tender part of me. It’s my heart and soul.

My writing is and always will be cathartic. It’s selfish in that way. It comes from my gut, my blood, my body.

I only get flashes of what is in me. That’s what these fragments are.

–Fragments from my journal

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we were the children of fathers who never learned how to love. of mothers that only spoke in shouting. we found ourselves somehow older than the people who were supposed to take care of us; found that we were mature beyond our years. we knew to just let arguments go because they would only lead to trouble, we accepted responsibility, we supplied the nurture that was missing. we would give anything to fill up the absence. we turned ourselves into perfect kids. we learned to give more than we took, to hide our problems under too many layers. how to box up our issues until they were nothing more than nightmares, how to take care of others so that at least someone would love us, even if we weren’t all there. later, when we were grown up, we found ourselves roller coasters, unable to speak about our problems unless we were shooting towards the ground, huge outbursts of pressure that made us feel worse rather than better. we couldn’t trust others to love us. a generation of children that know better but can’t stop. don’t mean to be jealous but are honestly just waiting for the other shoe to drop. who heard “i love you” from the same people who did not. who grew up knowing not to feel secure in happiness, not to want. who love different, who love insecure, but who love with everything they got.

inkskinned (via thesocietyofpoets)

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i. drown yourself with chocolates. forget the fact that you’re not into sweets. remind yourself that there are things worse than tasting something you aren’t into, and that’s losing something you don’t ever want to. ii. walk alone. from your house to some place. stand in the middle of it. when you start questioning yourself what the hell you’re doing there, remember that this is not the first time that you’re clueless as to what you’re doing. remind yourself that you’re going to get out of it. you always do. iii. visit an old best friend, that one you drifted away from. when she asks you what you’re there for, tell her: closure. when she asks what for, tell her: for the things you thought you had a chance with. iv. at the end of the day nobody will even remember how sassy you were earlier at lunch, or how much truth you’ve blurted out. at least not for a long time. so raise your eyebrows more. laugh at your own silliness. tell them your thoughts. don’t care. you’ve learned that caring too much only leaves you more fucked up than you initially were. you don’t want that again. v. hum. sway. glide. float. fly. move forward–no, no, dart fucking forward, girl. shrug. shake it all off. forget. remember only the relevant things. and that excludes the dickheads. and again, raise your eyebrows more. and if needed, raise your middle fingers, too. remember that you’re free now.

how to retrieve yourself /// irally cariaso (via thesocietyofpoets)