In The Silence
So much has changed. And still, you are fortunate:
the ideal burns in you like a fever.
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.
Louise Glück, October (Averno)


“Who the fuck brings a heart… to a knife fight?”

your heart is a second mouth
that devours everything
and it is the only part of you
that knows how ask for more.
Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)

Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels


Hunter S. Thompson, Hell’s Angels

Cover me with soft Earth… jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they grow above me… they will breathe the fragrance of my Heart into space.
Kahlil Gibran (via mirroir)


It used to always drive me crazy that you weren’t an organ donor. Now, I take a strange sort of comfort in knowing that your heart will never beat in someone else.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart. I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Jorge Luis Borges  (via loveage-moondream)
Once more January breaks my heart,
And what else can I do but laugh.
My heart wants roots. My mind wants wings. I cannot bear their bickerings.
E. Y. Harburg (via my-dark-star)
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.
Franz Kafka  (via moonandmoon)

Katherine Center, Everyone is Beautiful


Katherine Center, Everyone is Beautiful

Sometimes I Break Free

How long have I been trying to do this; find the right phrases to explain how alone and awkward I feel? Seems like forever. Every once in a while it gets rewarded with some false sense of home. But, maybe that’s my fault…getting too comfortable. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along and the smiles are never worth the scars. Maybe before taking chances I should stop to remember that memories can’t hold me, they can barely hold me together. 

But, what about the moments when I see myself in her? Even if I don’t speak up, my gaze says it all. “How long have I been trying to do this; find the phrases to explain how you make awkward and alone feel right? A smile that seems like forever, and a hold that feels like home.”

How long have I been trying to do this?

Well, when did we meet? 

“She’s going to break your heart in two, it’s true… ‘Cause everybody knows…the things she does to please… she’s just a little tease…”

When you look at her, it’s hard to know exactly what you’re looking at. She’s got to be a figment of your imagination; a bad, hypothetical argument, tenuously thrown together by your subconscious — because nothing real could ever be so… comically contrary.

This girl doesn’t even strike you as an actual person. She’s more like a commercial art-school film, an amoral-morality play, or some other pretentious expression of contradictory anti-meaning. 

So naturally cliche, that it’s artificially novel — like a breath of fresh air from a respirator. You don’t willingly breathe her in, but she can inflate and deflate your lungs, without invitation.

There’s no ghost in her machine, just predictable programming.

She doesn’t even make an effort to conceal it… her post-human seductions, and post-modern malfunctions. 

Whether she’s coming, or going — she always seems to be leaving. Melted mascara, smeared lipstick, torn dress; she’s an existential catastrophe. She’s limping away from the apocalyptic after-hours party, on a broken high-heel; natural-disaster heart, radioactive psyche, supernova ego still in tact.

The world is burning down around her, and all she can do is suck hard at the ashes of calamity — trying to light the end of a busted cigarette. You hate to see her go, because you loved to watch her bleed…

She’s blowing long-distance kisses from the fringes of humanity. She sends you postcards from the void:

“I’ve seen the future, baby. It is murder…”

Wish you were here.