I can pretty much convince myself that I'm dying at any given moment. Sorry about that, you like words though, right?
Sometimes, I think the only art left for us is slowly peeling the label off a beer bottle while somebody [flirts with you on the internet].


I would be lost with out hijacks. 

Wouldn’t we be quite the pair?—you with your bad heart, me with my bad head. Together, though, we might have something worthwhile.
a letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to her husband F. Scott Fitzgerald. (via tre-cherous)

Volatile shit

Things have been weird. Things like, “I miss you” and “you’ll never touch my face again.”

Driving home late through town
He woke me for a deer in the road,
The light smudge of it fragile in the distance,

Free in a way that made me ashamed for our flesh—
His hand on my hand, even the weight
Of our voices not speaking.

I watched a long time
And a long time after we were too far to see,
Told myself I still saw it nosing the shrubs,

All phantom and shadow, so silent
It must have seemed I hadn’t wakened,
But passed into a deeper, more cogent state—

The mind a dark city, a disappearing,
A handkerchief
Swallowed by a fist.

I thought of the animal’s mouth
And the hunger entrusted it. A hunger
So honed the green leaves merely maintain it.

We want so much,
When perhaps we live best
In the spaces between loves,

That unconscious roving,
The heart its own rough animal.

The second time,
There were two that faced us a moment
The way deer will in their Greek perfection,

As though we were just some offering
The night had delivered.
They disappeared between two houses,

And we drove on, our own limbs,
Our need for one another
Greedy, weak.

A Hunger So Honed, Tracy K. Smith

I am no one’s next girlfriend. I will be your ex wife, your failed relationship story, your reoccurring insecurities, your intimacy issues, the memory that makes you cringe when things become quiet in your bed.

I almost ran over an angel,
he had a nice big fat cigar.
“In a sense,” he said, “you’re alone here
so if you jump, you best jump far.”
Leather, Tori Amos
give me


the comfort of my parents’ toilet 
a discman with bass boost
the horse latitudes 
the drunk sonnets

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