“It’s all right if we keep forgetting the way home.
It’s all right if we don’t remember when we were born.
It’s all right if we write the same poem over and over.”

Robert Bly, from Talking Into The Ear Of A Donkey (via illusionsvk)

And here it is: I write you like a bullet in the gut.
I write you like you’ve always felt, like a weeping wound,
like something I know won’t heal right.
I write you like crooked stitches, like numbing shots,
like dents in my kneecap bones.
I write you furious, I write you writhing,
and I remember all the nights I spent wrapped up in you
like some damn stupid girl who didn’t know any better,
because I was the fight, the blood,
the sweat and grind.
Because you were the powder, the warning,
the match all aching to blow.
Because I was a damn stupid girl
who didn’t know any better.

I write you spitting out tobacco juice
on the dusty country road of our youth.
I write you all hands, all breath, all fingernails.
All gates, all chains, all iron bars.
All these dreams about your face, all these broken nights,
all the ways I’ve spent my life
trying to get rid of you.
You — all drug-addled, brow-beaten,
jugular scars.
Me — all stop. All no. All
please, please, please.

Jericho | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

“I was the one to pick up the matches,
yet I’m blaming fate for this charcoaled home.
We should have known our futile love
would go up in beautiful flames;
I should have known arson
when I saw the ashes in the air.

These hands, though cold, are mine
to create with. I never expected
to fall in love with destruction,
but baby, you had it written
across your calloused palms
from the moment I held them,
and I never planned on letting go.

We were dirt and demolition,
and my God, were we fatal,
and I still smile in my sleep
at the thought of our debris
and the wreckage you wore
underneath your fingernails.
But I don’t want to be scattered anymore.
I don’t want to be your mess.”

a.v., more poison than person

08-23 / 1:03 / 15 notes

i don’t think there’s any better compliment than das not comprehending actual tags on your poem tbh

08-20 / 23:23 / 1 note

heldinhishands said: I’m on mobile so I can’t search myself; I was wondering if you had a link to this challenge? I would really appreciate it!

It’s right here!

08-20 / 23:03 / 2 notes
Anonymous asked: what was the inspiration for the stranger/ mother poem? love your work by the way :)
Was I ever really your daughter? is a true story, actually. It was for the poetry challenge my friend and I made, and I think the prompt was for someone you wish you knew— I wrote about my biological mother, since I’m adopted and never knew her. Thanks, lovebug! I really appreciate it.
- a.v.
08-20 / 22:26 / 3 notes

“I want to tell you I miss
you with no subtext. No guilt,
no anger, no expectation
that you’ll fix it. I don’t want
you to feel bad or to tell
me it will get better. This
is where we are meant to be
right now – me apart from you,
my hands a little empty and
my heart a little sad.
I just miss you.
I wanted you to know.”

anne, fyi (via anneisrestless)

“I write to you like a lover
but we have never been in love.
Three AM and I’m sending snapshots
of my heart because you are the only one
who isn’t afraid to look at them.
Sometimes we kiss for no reason.
Sometimes I go crawling into your bed
because I need a space to belong to
and your hands are steadier
than mine have ever been.
Sometimes you get lost
and you wind up on my doorstep,
but it’s okay—
you’re always welcome here.
I tell you all the secrets I’ve been
keeping from myself while you
peel apart at the edges and admit
to all the soft things you pretend
you don’t know how to feel.
We understand each other, here.
My sheets know all our demons.
We don’t touch like that in the daytime,
but at night you are all hands
and I am all teeth
and we are a double-hinged door
slammed open by the wind.
We work that way.
It’s easy as breathing:
two kindred souls wrapped up together
in the same skin.”

Best Friends With Benefits, by Ashe Vernon (via vapourise)

“Delete her number.

Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.

Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.

She loves you.

She has been in love with you for too long.

So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.

Forget her.

Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.

Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.

Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.

What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.

Doggedly loyal to you.

That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reachvout to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?

She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.

Right now.

But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.”

(via great-eudemonia)

holy fucking wow

(via curiovsly)


(via lost-in-woonderland)

I kinda want to bawl my eyes out because I love wayy too hard but I get scared and may end up leaving you

(via sondoms)

I love this so fucking much

(via maaaayaaaaa)

"my stomach is full
but everything else is empty
my heart, my bed, my lungs
maybe I got so used
to feeling hollow
with you around that
I never felt the need
to change”

drunk poetry (a.v.)
08-19 / 18:23 / 29 notes