darling, i'm drunk

his name is made of stars,
and though the floorboards
of this tortured home
look like rotting teeth
and the scratches on the walls
match the ones that never heal on your chest,
a criss cross of wounds
that are your reminders,
(that he traces over your shirt
when he thinks you aren’t paying attention_
the soft sounds of his footsteps
makes the dim light
a little easier to bear.

the sounds he leaves behind
surround you
long after he is gone.

they tell you
in a tiny lecture hall-
in a place where no one will remember
the grey boy with his stone heart and wolf smile-
that long after a star dies
you will see its light
because the world does not move
at the same pace we do
and distances are much greater
than we perceive.

when you are curled under a tree
with death on your heels
congealed like the blood on your hands
you look up and wonder
if you are feeling the light of a star
that died long ago.

"the punk who wore his scars like statements won’t stop tugging on your heartstrings" — b. i. simek (via henrymaarchbanks)

// oh lovely goddess //

❝ I love those mornings when you wake to darkness and no one is asking anything of you. You’re under no pressure to exist. This is something of which I am in constant need. ❞
C.R.   (via thatkindofwoman)

Tonight you’re thinking of cities under crowns
of snow and I stare at you like I’m looking through a window,
counting birds.

You wanted happiness, I can’t blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
but tell me
you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

Richard Siken, Seaside Improvisation  (via punksokka)
❝ Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore. ❞
Richard Siken, Saying Your Names (via themaraudersaredead)

"He’s all I think about and makes me so happy fuck him.” (r.i.d)

ten word poem /// r.i.d

❝ I would like to sing someone to sleep,
to sit beside someone and be there.
I would like to rock you and sing softly
and go with you to and from sleep.
I would like to be the one in the house
who knew: The night was cold.
And I would like to listen in and listen out
into you, into the world, into the woods.
The clocks shout to one another striking,
and one sees to the bottom of time.
And down below one last, strange man walks by
and rouses a strange dog.
And after that comes silence.
I have laid my eyes upon you wide;
and they hold you gently and let you go
when something stirs in the dark. ❞
Rainer Maria Rilke (via dolorimeter)