I know this sounds weird but I wonder what my bed sheets say about me when Iʼm not around.
I wonder what the curtains would do if they found out about all the things Iʼve done behind their back.
I have a hamper thatʼs overflowing with really, really loud mistakes
and a graveyard in my closet.
Iʼm afraid if I let you see my skeletons,
youʼd grind my bones into powder and get high off my fault lines.
They say that time flies,
but you keep breaking its wings.
leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I’ll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there?
Snow and Dirty Rain - Richard Siken (via vaelkyrie)
But sometimes the world disrobes, slips its dress off a shoulder, stops time for a beat. If we look up at that moment, it’s not due to any ability of ours to pierce the darkness, it’s the world’s brief bestowal. The catastrophe of grace […] We think that change occurs suddenly, but even I have learned better. Happiness is wild and arbitrary, but it’s not sudden.
In Michaela’s favourite restaurant, I lift my glass and cutlery spills onto the expensive tiled floor. The sound crashes as high as the skylight. Looking at me, Michaela pushes her own silverware over the edge.
I fell in love amid the clattering of spoons… .
Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces (via lipfused)
You, framed softly by the doorframe
after a promising first date, looking down at me,
expectant. I can only think about your hands.
We do not end up kissing.
Instead we bump noses and then I come inside
and lock the door behind me,
When a week has passed and still,
you have not called, I wonder if it is maybe because
I have my father’s face. Or if you have somehow
seen old writing of mine on the internet somewhere,
and have been scared off by how I have written
about a past love, all bloody and fanged.
I practice dry swallowing pills in the bathroom,
count the number of scars and sunspots
on my skin. I burn candles and crush the blackened
wicks with my thumb and forefinger. All the boys
I’ve kissed after you look exactly the same.
The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.
Alan Bennett, The History Boys: The Film (via observando)
There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city.
People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don’t find myself saying, “Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.” I don’t try to control a sunset. I watch with awe as it unfolds.
She said, “I’m so afraid.” And I said, “Why?,” and she said, “Because I’m so profoundly happy. Happiness like this is frightening.” I asked her why and she said, “They only let you be this happy if they’re preparing to take something from you.”
Dear Shame, if I could see who you really are maybe
I would create more art than excuses. Finally see by the light
An empowered fuse is lit.
Mental litter and literature would
Not literally be my only friends.
I could finally let people inn.
Like a hotel, make home in me.
Fill my rooms now that I’ve left
Ignore the sounds of how the room aches.
Shame left but healing has just begun
And I am heavy with the weight of my skele-ton.
Feed sermons to the serpents.
Tell me about urgency.
Hang ‘do not disturb’
Next to ‘do not discard’
On the door of things I’ve yet to handle.
Like sitting still when Shame knocks again.
If I am to leave it behind, every once in a while I need you to check-in.
in and out of the past,
so many things have died
In and out like a tide,
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.
Here are the little gravestones
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.
lost days, in and out of themselves
and dreaming again and half-
—Carol Ann Duffy, “All Days Lost Days” from The Salmon: Selected Poems. Salmon Publishing Ltd, 1996
At the temple,
there is a poem called “Loss”,
carved into the stone.
It has three words… but
the poet scratched them out.
You cannot read “Loss”…
You can only feel it.
In cold darkness,
we all trade our diamonds
Not all victories are neat
Not all that glistens is heat