nyanar-archive reblogged
nyanar-archive reblogged
you’re all knotted up inside
your skin, you’re
a walking war
with your casualties
seeping through and
when there is a lull on the battlefield
i want to touch you but ―
you are quiet and i am
loud noise and residual echoes
and a litany of gunfire, left
scattered on the
ground, left wondering
why you picked
me up.
― i have forgotten what you
look like without the
indents of my fingers
remaining.
Madeleine C, THE ABSENCE OF SILENCE
nyanar-archive reblogged
I take back what you have stolen,
and in your languages I announce
I am now nameless.
My true name is a growl.
Margaret Atwood, The Animals Reject Their Names and Things Return to Their Origins
nyanar-archive reblogged
Let’s sing something bloody & crying & repeat
the chorus until we can smell some pine sap already.
Russ Woods, from “Dear Juniper,” published in Jellyfish Magazine
nyanar-archive reblogged
In the end, maybe all I can say is I tried to.
I tried to breathe, saved up bandages like skin petals
and hanged them on windows to dry. I tried to kiss,
strangers who mean nothing until the first
tiptoe dance to that one song that may have been played
on the moon countless times before it is sent back to the earth.
I tried to want, good things, the ones that make me feel
lighter than a split-end of hair, like that first line of light
seeping through the eyelashes of dawn. I tried to love,
myself, more than anyone ever did, more
than anyone ever apologize for after leaving. And I am trying
to be okay with that. And sometimes that’s the hardest part.
Kharla M. Brillo, I’m Getting There (via ecouri)
Source: pouvoires
nyanar-archive reblogged
ohproserpine-deactivated2015053
Untamed, we are godless & malformed.
We unearth & fight our whole lonely, our
despicable traumas, in curses & slammed
doors & we shun & shame & fuck & surrender
Jeanann Verlee, excerpt of “The Riot Kings (of Apartment F9)”
nyanar-archive reblogged
we bit and tore our way into each others hearts,
but the way we sewed up the wounds was
so loving and tender.
yes, i’m bloody and wild and
yes, you’re a too bright disease,
but the sun and the moon never get many opportunities to understand each other.
we barely see each other.
so we’ll love one another in the only ways we know how.
with rough, clawing hands and
and soft, worshipping kisses.
in the blistering heat of the sun,
and the comforting cold of the moon.
we bleed gold and cry silver // a.c
nyanar-archive reblogged
it was another lifetime when you punched yourself awake
shocked to see the red on your fist
ichor was supposed to be golden
you became used to waking up human
faint cracks forming across your once timeless form
and when your cracks turned to tears
you learned to stitch yourself up with steady hands
now you wake yourself up and stitch yourself back together again
old, worn body aching for oblivion
your hands shaking as you stitch yourself into fragmented skin
an awful mockery of your former beauty
but old hands can’t hold needles steady
and your stitching is never quite right anymore
and i’m not sure if anyone’s told you
when you get angry your light shines through
stitches || s.b.a.
nyanar-archive reblogged
Dear hands,
i can’t remember the last time you were still. nowadays you’re always shaking and trembling and fidgeting. i wonder when this first started. did you become more active as i became more passive?
Dear feet,
please stop falling off so often. some days you’re just gone and suddenly i can’t get out of bed anymore. don’t do that, please don’t do that. at least give me some warning so the next time it happens i can prepare for the anchor that you leave in your place.
Dear shoulders,
i can’t decide whether to call you ‘atlas’ or ‘prometheus.’
Dear blood,
i’m sorry i spilled so much of you, i really am. you feel so thick and sluggish these days, almost like tar. i suppose when i visualised this emptiness like it was swallowed cement i didn’t expect it to actually materialise.
Dear eyes,
remember iguazu falls, remember how there were more than 200 waterfalls spewing water forth with a desperate rage? when i said i missed that place i didn’t mean that i wanted you to become it.
Dear heart,
please come back home. i’ve got a blanket and hot soup and arms all ready and waiting. come back soon, you’re missed more than you imagine. come home, come home.
Darshana Suresh, week 14 of 52 - “Dear Me” (via afterthelonely)
Source: afterthelonely
nyanar-archive reblogged
starredsoul
1. Take his hands, take them by the teeth, because you are something wild, something terrible, and he never knew how to love you in a way that inflamed you, in a way that gnawed at your bones.
2. Are you still trying to swallow the stars? Are you still trying to let the light burn through?
3. I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail, besides prayers growing stale on my tongue. I could give you my body, my flesh, offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet. Would it be enough? Could you carve a story from my veins?
4. When your mother tells you about your birth, she says it like myth, like pain and blessings and something pink and precious. She never tells you that you were born angry, with too many teeth.
5. It all adds up to this: the hollow chest, the bruised neck, the shaking hands. Your body, the triumvirate of unholy things.
Emily Palermo, ix.
nyanar-archive reblogged
All day I’ve thought of bodies
that sink into creeks deep as a woman
how organs flutter slowly
into death. My tongue an arm loose
inside me. I sleep with eyes
open to weeds. Chime. Wind
entering me in an avalanche
of circles. My chest a sea
standing on its hind legs.
Ready to spill out.
Raven Jackson, “Self Portrait After Undressing,” in The Phantom Limb:Issue 10. (via literarymiscellany)
nyanar-archive reblogged
moodtender-deactivated20150523
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,
it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of “Old Battersea Bridge.”
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.
Here when I say “I never want to be without you,”
somewhere else I am saying
“I never want to be without you again.” And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet
in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem by Bob Hicok (via prewars)
nyanar-archive reblogged
My love
is a pair of scissors
I keep begging you
not to run with.
Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)
nyanar-archive reblogged
wordsnquotes
Close your eyes and imagine the best version of you possible. That’s who you really are, let go of any part of you that doesn’t believe it.
C. Assaad
Source: wordsnquotes.com
nyanar-archive reblogged
I cannot stand the words Get over it. All of us are under such pressure to put our problems in the past tense. Slow down. Don’t allow others to hurry your healing. It is a process, one that may take years, occasionally, even a lifetime — and that’s OK.
Beau Taplin // T h e P a s t T e n s e
nyanar-archive reblogged
I have skin like a flower petal;
hold me the wrong way and
I’ll bleed out all over your hands.
Sharp teeth make me flinch.
They remind me of flesh
wounds, of my heart being
shaken in jaws like a dog’s toy.
Anger sends my pulse into a race.
My heartbeat nearly jumps out
of my wrists, almost leaps from
the curve of my neck.
Doe-eyed, long limbed, always
quick to startle. Skin like a glass
bottle; brittle and fragile and
always ready to splinter.
Please, be gentle with me.
Please.
Darshana Suresh, “fawnlike souls”
Source: titanswrite
nyanar-archive reblogged
We came from the darkness
and we could not tell
if our eyes were open, so
we stepped into the light
with them closed.
We were blind,
and innocent,
and unafraid.
We saw the world but
the world saw us too and
we buried ourselves
like broken things in
a graveyard of glass.
We were crying,
and bruised
and bleeding.
We loved each other
with naked hearts that
we pulled from our chests
and said here, take this,
take us, take me.
We were loved
and we loved
and nothing else had ever mattered.
Madeleine C, Veni, Vidi, Amavi