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“i. i tell my sister you’re in bed with a headache for six days in a row. i tell her not to turn on any lights, it’ll just make it hurt worse for everyone. ii. i punch two walls and tear a book of poems in half when someone finally gives this bloody, dirty thing a name. i do not apologize, i do not forgive. iii. i dial up the devil at your old phone number and offer him my wrists in exchange for your laughter. i tell him i am almost beautiful, almost worth the resurrection of your smile. iv. i spend three months under the blankets during winter, pretending i can still hear your voice, pretending this is the last time i’ll cry for you. i write five pages in my journal and burn them all. i pretend these days aren’t real. v. it’s been two years and i am trying not to write so many poems for you anymore. i am trying to forgive you and forgive me and let you finish leaving. i am tired of holding on to bare bones, to empty coffins. i am tired of holding on.”

— grief in five parts (sarah kate osborn)

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coa.

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From “Dream Girl” collection of poems by Clementine von Radics

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there is no hope

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there is no hope

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INDYA MOORE © Luke Gilford for Modern Weekly China

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“Whatever life takes away from you, let it go.”

— Miguel Ruiz (via amortizing)

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Living in 3019.

[Yes, they’ve considered summer, and there are auto-open panels when it gets too hot.]