"13 things my uncle told me before he died:
not everyone has the blessing to understand sadness
when waiting at the bus stop, it’s okay to smoke cigarettes
never touch anyone else’s clothes at the laundromat
it’s okay to miss the people who were bullets to you
when your grandmother asks you how you are, be honest
never be afraid to say “no” even after you’ve said “yes”
if someone tells you graffiti isn’t art, prove them wrong
remember people by their eye color not their clothes
you’re allowed to like dark chocolate with tangerines
don’t lie that you don’t have a lighter when you really do
turn your phone off every once in a while and find the moon
if you want a tattoo, don’t let anyone tell you not to get it
if you ever find yourself at the graveyard, read the names"

poems from my uncles grave (via stayholden-phonyboy)

(Source: irynka, via catiev)


I have so many mountains
In between my cheeks;
I’m climbing
Each time
I’m with you.

"Oh how we forget
that everything is a choice
and we can decide."

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via tylerknott)

(via theloversblog)


I don’t even know who I am.


I found my old clothes
Neatly packaged in cardboard boxes
Out in my garage.
I remember the fragile girl who packed them up,
Moving from a small apartment into a house she’d make a home.
Her palms sweaty, nervous, writing poems with her tongue in the
Backseat of his car.
She hadn’t smoked in several months, then,
Missing the burn of nicotine flowing through her veins.
And she wasn’t angry.

I am never wet,
Always chaffing over old wounds and
How the bookshelf is too cluttered.
I don’t know how to raise him because I never raised myself;
Maybe I am already failing.

I am awake at four AM now,
The hymn of an electric machine fluttering in my ear.
It’s the only time I have to think -
About love, divorce, how cold it’s been, where the summer might take us.
I don’t write much down anymore.
I have most of my words
Waiting patiently
At the tip of my tongue.


I have a broken
compass for a

She points me west,
Holding steady,
Reassuring me that I am headed in
The right direction.
I haven’t seen the trails for several
And I am sullen, traveling with
Blistered feet and dusty palms.
Wishing somehow there were still real
Instead of little points on a glowing
Computer screen.

I am the latitude that
lunges for you.
I am an arrowhead buried
In the sand.

I feel like I don’t need to write
Because his life is poetry

I feel like I don’t need to write
Because his life is poetry


Like a lounge singer,
You spoke to me under
Smoky lights.
Asked me how it felt to
Walk alone, to write my own
Novel on the backs of my hands.
My mouth was
Floral then,
Overgrown and so contagious
I swear my very tongue was
Printed on your skin.

You were the last known star
That burned in the back of my eyes.

Been craving a stiff drink the last few days, but I’ve held back, well aware that my body is hardly my own anymore. Feels like a vessel, now. It’s been almost one year of this, knowing I can’t be twenty-five when my friends are rubbing their heels on expensive shoes in New York City. I hate stilettos but I’m jealous, anyway.

Wonder how long this envy will last. Only two more months of limited inhales and I can forget all about the various infections I’ve had and the lack of decent REM. I’m like Rorschach’s ink blot; a mess, but some people can still see me. How, I’ll never understand. All I can find is an avenue.

We’ve been conserving heat so the hardwood floors are fucking cold and my feet feel like they aren’t a part of me. It’s funny how unregulated my temperature has been. I’m fucking crashing.

There’s just so much I didn’t know. No regrets. You were the sweetest ending.