Cross the world together from this sinking ship.

(Or, Calypso’s Closure)

Swallow the sea
when your eyes go dark
and your ribs fill with sand
made from all the broken glass from every shattered dream.
When your heart is heavy as whale bones left to rot,
find the abandoned ports,
the empty shores without a lighthouse.
Shed your clothes, shed
your memories.
Shed the world you made inside your head.

Listen to the gulls screaming,
Maybe he was right and
all of this was
a myth inside your head.
Maybe he was right, maybe
he was right.
Then tell them
they are wrong.

You hold the ghost of a little boy in your stomach.
Vomit him up
with the salt water.
Scrape his would-be father from the inside of your skull.
They will lie black as blood in the moonlit sand.
Leave them.
Let the tide come in and take them away,
the way your first lover once took away your fear.

Swallow the sea.
Realize that the inside of your mouth
has tasted like vodka and regret
for far too long,
that three-AM secrets were never what you deserved,
hidden in blackouts and Bermuda triangles,
in the landlocked cities he hid within his head.

The salt will burn your wounds,
make them easier to find,
to stitch up with driftwood needles and seaweed thread
and watch them tattoo you with the coast as they heal.
Leave your demons on the beach.
Take only
the image of your footprints
as the ocean
washes them away.

Swallow
                the sea.

5000letters:

I wake up at night on the hour
to make sure that you are still there
even though I know that if you weren’t
my lungs would seize looking for breath
because it seems that every time you leave

you take all the air with you.

tla242:

Heaven was absent that day,
having decided to ignore humanity
for once.

The skies an angry iron,
thunder fractured the air and land,
without the flash of accompanying fire.
The seas danced;
mosh pit waves
whose fists unclench to throw
unknown beasts onto shores,
their corpses left foul.
Leaves fell
to the forest floor no longer green
a putrid, thoughtless, gray
covering pinecone land mines
awaiting a misplaced step
to send shrapnel through bark
and skin alike.
The wind stopped,
when beasts of land and sky turned
on man,
they bit and scratched and stung and howled.
Songs of war unheard since Job.
Hell burst forth,
pouring its army
into the cities and countryside.
Clad in camouflage of viscera
armed to the teeth with hate.
They skinned men.
They disemboweled women.
They devoured children.
Leaving no soul unturned.

Heaven was absent that day,
but I missed it,
fast asleep and dreaming of you.  

eldritchsmuttybarmpot:

“Don’t fall in love with a curious one. They will want to know who you are, where you come from, what your family was like. They will look through your photographs and read all of your poems. They will come over for dinner and speak to your mother about how their curiosity has taught them things of use to her. They will ask you to rant when you’re angry and cry when you’re hurt. They will ask what that raised eyebrow meant. They will want to know your favorite food, your favorite color, you favorite person. They will ask why. They will buy that camera you liked, pay attention to that band you love in case there’s a show near by, they will get you the sweater you smiled at once. They’ll learn to cook your favorite meals. The curious people don’t settle for your shell, they want the insides. They want what makes you heavy, what makes you uneasy, what makes you scream for joy, and anger, and heartbreak. Their skin will turn into pages that you learn to pour out your entire being in. Don’t fall in love with the curious one. They won’t let a sigh go unexplained. They will want to know what they did Exactly what they did to make you love them. Year, month, week, day. “What time was it? What did I say? What did I do? How did you feel?” Don’t fall in love with a curious one because I’ve been there. They will unbutton your shirt and read every scar every mark every curve. They will dissect your every limb, every organ, every thought, every being. “There’s a curiosity in you that will move mountains some day as effortlessly as you’ve moved me for years.””

— Don’t Fall In Love With The Curious One (via uglybuthonest)

(Source: mlcli)

He placed his pointer finger
in the middle of my forehead –
said,
“Don’t worry so much.
It’ll give you wrinkles.”

Sometimes,
it seems I’ve been
anxious
since before I even
knew what that meant

and sometimes,
I wish I could stop
breathing
so I would know what it’s like
not to shake.

(Source: awildflowerinbloom, via fleurdanslamour)

dirrtyflowerchild:

another reminder.

the world is heavy
but your bones
(just a cubic inch)
can hold 19,000 lbs

ounce for ounce
they are stronger than steel

atom for atom
you are more precious than diamond

and stars have died
so that you may live

you need to remember these things
when you say that you are weak
and worthless

Cati tagged this for me and now I kind of want to cry?

Baaaaaaaby, I love you <3

(Source: sinandserotonin, via doctorwhowatchesthewatchmen)

One day you will sleep with a man
who is better than you.
He will touch you like the surface of a lake,
like he knows he will cause ripples
and he cannot bring his fingertips to do it.
Do not correct his assumption
that you are not only still on the surface
but all the way down.
Remember that the reflections you offer are still beautiful,
even through the layers of algae you’ve grown.
Remember that a little distortion can be a good thing.
Remember the way the sunlight sparkles
on flowing rivers. Remember
that still reflections are of something already seen,
but when wind moves the water,
it offers something new.

Breathe in.

When he buys you cigarettes the next morning, remind yourself:
this does not make me a whore.
Remember that mornings after don’t have to be full of pretense.
Once upon a time, a boy made you eggs in his father’s kitchen
while his cat twined around your ankles.
Remember how that felt.
Remind yourself that sometimes people mean exactly what they say,
and that when he mentioned a second date,
he was not saying it
to placate you.

Breathe out.

When he tells you he is dreaming of wet, black earth,
of worms between his teeth, of
holes to deep to climb out of,
do not tell him you already know.
Instead, tell him you will wait until the storm leaves,
until the skin of his wrists smells like ozone again.
Remember the way his lips fell on your chest,
quiet late night summer raindrops.

Breathe in.

When you think about things the next day, remind yourself:
there will be more to think about.
Do not assume you will be left. Give him
the benefit of the doubt.
Remind yourself:
He is better than them.
Remind yourself:
He is better than you.
When he emerges, and you kiss him,
and his lips taste like dark dirt,
do not turn away.
Remember that you smell like lake water in June.
Remember that the dirt is where things grow.
Remind yourself:
he is stronger than you.
He is stronger
than this.

Breathe
           out.