"IF THE MOON SMILED, SHE WOULD RESEMBLE YOU.
YOU LEAVE THE SAME IMPRESSION
OF SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL, BUT ANNIHILATING.”
You are daughter of the stars and destruction, born from the same hands that pin death in the skies as constellations. Something quivers and moans under your skin; phantoms trapped between two worlds, darkness you swallowed whole with premature gums. You don’t need a house to be haunted. You grin, turn the moon over in your smile. All you need is your rune-marked bones, a body promised to crackling skies and howling winds. Death croons within you, burning offerings to lost humanity in the quiet ends of your fingertips, torch held above your head. These days, everybody’s already dead.
You strike your last match, and wait.
antebellum pillars, peach tree groves, picturesque boardwalks - this is roswell, georgia, the shining personification of the southern comfort and elaborate courtesies the empire state of the south was so renowned in the last half of the 19th century. in 2014, however, hoop skirts are being traded for jeans, betrothals for bar dates. where proud plantations once stood are now sleek skyscrapers and low-rise living areas, ballrooms and manors alongside fluorescent-lit mcdonalds and hole-in-the-wall cafes. welcome to #fools rp, a no app real life set coming soon!
Late June, grass lush like pretty brown girls,
like Vietnam. Tan hips on a beach, the sun
orange and pregnant.
No, that’s a different poem.
In this one, children sell citrus on the streets,
mouths sour and ripe. This is an exploration in grief.
Lake house sugar,
reading the same chapter of the same book
or two years in a overgrown tree house,
vines like barbed wire, climbing roses,
sticks of dynamite in the freezer like popsicles.
I learned to live in a place
that splintered itself. My father made rocking
chairs for a living. It was almost natural. You ripped
chunks out of the sofa, the sun melting butter on my legs.
Cracking me beneath your teeth like sunflower seeds.
You kept our kitchen knives beneath the mattress
like my mother and her gold. I bought lemons from
a pretty-eyed boy with bubblegum lips,
an apple pie and baseball heart, all that good American shit.
Winter is the season of burnt tongues.
Salt and ice on the back of your hand.
You peel the skin off and I count piano key bones.
You never said enough
& I never said no, to you.
which blogs have good quote tags/what are some good poetry blogs?
RUIN | [listen here] [download here] | (a mix for when a love collapses like a city in ruin, for when each kiss becomes a ticking time bomb and each touch becomes a scar )
i. i’m not the one - the black keys | ii. putting the dog to sleep - the antlers | iii. counting - autre ne veut | iv. waiting game - banks | v. rent free - nylo | vi. time travel undone - sza | vii. me - the 1975 | viii. leaving tonight - the neighbourhood | ix. inhaler - foals | x. do me a favour - arctic monkeys | xi. is this it - the strokes | xii. close to nowhere - band of skulls | xiii. tiny vessels - death cab for cutie | xiv. sights - london grammar | xv. still - daughter | xviii. metal heart - cat power | xix. black flies - ben howard | xx. the undiscovered first - feist
This is what I look like
This is what I look like and could you stop being
so damn bothered for a minute
while I find my glasses
I’m not sure you understand that
I’d stab myself three times
just to be sure
that you still loved her
I’d fucking kamikaze my guts
and spill them out on the pavement with all the dirt and filth
I thought I’d washed my hands of
red blood doesn’t come out of innocents
and it sure as hell can’t be bleached out of whites
my unbalanced brain
with post it notes scribbles
slapped all over the place like a ski helmet
filled with half justified diagnoses of my
I think you will always be here in my head
I stopped writing poetry for a while there
it was all about you, you see
and that’s just love struck dribble
sounding like trash that spilled out of an adolescent’s mind
bullshit, I called it and stuck it with the other trash
along with the shit I told you I’d burned in my backyard
when it’s really just lying there in the back of my closet
and that’s the metaphor for us
that I created a bonfire at the end
all by myself
and killed what I felt for you under a September moon
with red coils of fire flickering in my eyes
it’s one hell of a myth
the reality is far less romantic
when you see the divorce papers on my bedroom floor
i bought an orange mac lipstick im so ready for spring
ASKED BY vaering
it’s either unfair by the neighbourhood or mafia by hucci depending on which one you mean :) x
there’s something dangerous about the boredom of teenage girls.the virgin suicides (1999) , spring breakers (2012) , twin peaks (1990 - 1991) , lolita (1997) , cracks (2009) , stoker (2013)