Just because someone desires you, does not mean that they value you. Read it over. Again. Let those words resonate in your mind.
You don’t need another human being to make your life complete, but let’s be honest. Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world.
Emery Allen (via thewastedgeneration)
He was all slapped red cheeks
and too short jeans.
I kissed him until his mother came home
and laughed at our backwards sweaters
and lack of breath.
He was all “pick you up at eight”,
see him at ten.
Loving him was a wait -
waiting for his car to pull up,
waiting for his call,
waiting for him to feel the same.
I thought he was saying “I love you too”
when he talked about knee highs and
his parents going out of town and
no one ever driving by the field by his house,
but all he was saying was
“I want to fuck you.”
He was all innocent curls and ’60s rock -
a mama’s boy that had not outgrown rebellion.
My thighs were another way to stick it to his parents
who, upon seeing us sucking the marrow out of each other,
winked and presented me with my very own
“daughter in law” nickname.
The poor boy.
The last thing he’d wanted was the hickey
I left on his neck to spell “forever.”
He was all timid shakes and coffee breaks
with never a penny in his pocket.
I shared my cup of frozen yogurt with him
in return for space in his bed.
A season with him was a hot period of
drunken insomnia and game shows.
Beautiful and full of late night loneliness,
but sad, so sad.
That boy spent hours staring at the sky,
willing himself not to cry.
His last text read:
The birds may know about the heaven
we look for with ladders,
but I’ll never know unless I jump.
I am all scars and broken parts,
a collapsed choo choo train that ran out
of steam months ago, but
somehow keeps chugging along
to toot my horn at boys on the street,
though my poor little heart tells me
it can’t bear the weight of yet
Choo choo, I say.
If you’re the boy pulling
feathers out of your spine,
I’ve been looking for you.
Just under my photo, there’s green text that says “Organ Donor.” When I was 16 and getting my driver’s license, they asked me if I’d like it printed there. I’d heard the rumors. People said if you were an organ donor, paramedics wouldn’t work as hard to save your life. I called bullshit. Print it. Take my heart for someone who needs it. You can’t take it with you.
Third period of my first day of high school, my teacher walked in and told us he wanted an essay from everyone about dying empty. I found it morbid. I was young, full of life and I was sure as shit planning to die fulfilled. I wanted to soak up every ounce of this life. I wanted to see every corner of the world and so empty was not an option for me. Of course, that’s not what he meant.
I think I was 18 when I truly realized that I don’t believe in god. The last hurdle for me was the same as it is for a lot of people. We’re afraid to die and rightfully so. Religion quells some of that fear. The idea of an afterlife is comforting. You do some nice things, you give 10% of your income to the church, you follow the rules and you get an everlasting paradise.
I’ve relegated myself to the idea that this is the only shot I’ve got. I’ve started to understand what my 10th grade English teacher was talking about. For me, there’s no eternity, no reincarnation, no pearly gates. For me, the only shot at being infinite I have is to leave a legacy worth remembering. I wasn’t born empty. We’re not shells waiting to be filled in by the world. We aren’t a collection of the things we’ve seen. We’re born with something to offer. We’re born full of potential. Potential to change the world. Potential to break down walls. We’re born full of life and I’m pouring mine out everyday. I’m giving it to everyone I meet because someday, I’m gonna die; we all are, and when that day comes, you can’t take it with you.
scientists tell us that all water
is old water,
that there is no room for originality,
that everything is recycled.
the anguish of Achilles bleeding out
face-down in the Trojan dirt
mingles with that of a stockbroker caught
in the ebb and flow of the markets,
and what I am trying to say is that the tears
navigating south through the canyons on your face
may have once wet the cheeks
of Alexander the Great
for the same reason.