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ca·lam·i·tous

Crystal is the name.

Florida.

21.

Bisexual

Sex, Depression, Selfies, Poetry.

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"

YOU ARE THE KIND OF SCAR
I DO NOT WANT TO WRITE ABOUT,
I SAY IN THE FIFTH POEM I HAVE WRITTEN ABOUT YOU.

HOW COME MY WORDS FUCKING HATE YOU SO MUCH?
HOW COME THEY ARE ALWAYS SO HUNGRY FOR YOU?

HOW COME I FUCKING HATE YOU SO MUCH?
HOW COME I’M ALWAYS SO
HUNGRY FOR YOU?

IT GOES LIKE THIS: I TELL YOU THAT I’M LEAVING
AND YOU HOLD MY HEAD UNDER WATER.
“MY HEART WAS SO GOOD FOR YOU,” YOU SAY.

“NO,” I TELL YOU. “YOUR HEART WAS A CEMETERY,
A GRAVEYARD, A MORGUE.
YOUR HEART WAS THE DEATH OF ME.”

MY MOTHER THINKS THAT
MAYBE IT WAS YOUR CHIPPED-ICE HANDS,
THE BROAD OAK TREE IN YOUR BACK YARD, THAT MAYBE
IT WAS THE CIGARETTE SMOKE.

THAT MAYBE IT WAS YOUR MOUTH, THAT
MOUTH ALL TIED UP WITH SECRETS
YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO,
MAYBE IT WAS YOUR MOUTH
BECAUSE IT WAS THE UGLIEST THING ABOUT YOU.

THAT MAYBE IT WAS MY BODY LYING
NAKED ON THE FLOOR, MAYBE IT WAS
THE BLOOD UNDER MY FINGERNAILS, THAT MAYBE IT WAS
SUPPOSED TO BE BEAUTIFUL.

THAT MAYBE YOUR TEETH
WERE THE WHITEST THINGS I’D EVER SEEN,
MAYBE I WAS SICK FOR YOU, BOY,
MAYBE I WAS ON MY FUCKING KNEES. BUT STILL —

I AM A CAT SCRATCHED JAW, I AM BLEEDING
OUT THE BELLY.

I AM SO MUCH MORE THAN A COFFIN
YOU CAN BURN.

"

Valentine’s Day | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)




extrasad:

Sad poems in public

my mother found me spitting 

up my own tears and she 

asked me what was wrong

and your name tumbled from

my saltwater stained lips

and she told me she was 

surprised and I asked why

and she told me that after

all the times you’d tried to

break me, she figured I’d 

be numb to you by now. I’ll

never fucking be numb to

you






sicklysatisfied:

∞ Are You Satisfied? ∞




sicklysatisfied:

∞ Are You Satisfied? ∞




fightingadepression:

Follow my instagram for more
@romymusicx_poems





"I want you to call me at 4 in the morning
when you’ve drank too much liquor
and smoked too many cigarettes
and you think the world is exploding
when it’s really just a bad headache.
I want to listen to you cry and
I want you to use my shirt to wipe away your tears.
I wouldn’t even care if you got snot on my favorite scarf.
I want to stay up all night talking to you
about Plath and Bukowski
and I want to wake up in the morning
with my hands tangled around you and
my mouth close enough to clumsily bump into yours.
I’ll sing You Are My Sunshine over and over again until you
plant your mouth on mine just to get me to shut up.
I’ll even give you massages after a long day
until my hands are raw and tired.
I want to hear you scream,
groan,
moan
I want to see your lips tremble
and your fingers cramp
and your torso sweat.
I want to see it.
I want to see all the parts of you that you’ve never showed anyone.
I’ll let you bleed when you need to bleed
and I won’t hesitate to stitch up your broken parts.
I want so much of you
and it’s okay that you don’t want much of me.
I am nothing but a body filled with black tea
and heavy lids that droop after midnight.
Because whether it is today or tomorrow or 10 years from now in a small coffee shop, I will admit this all to you.
But for now, it feels safe on paper."

-I want to love you so badly | Kimberly Siehl (via hangingwallflower)



sicklysatisfied:

∞ Are You Satisfied? ∞




sicklysatisfied:

∞ Are You Satisfied? ∞







eartheld:

adelineania:

Exciting things ahead. (at Flowers for Dreams)

mostly nature



ecklekctic:

Anna KarinaThat happened while we were shooting the picture in Geneva. It was a strange love story from the beginning. I could see Jean-Luc was looking at me all the time, and I was looking at him too, all day long.  We were like animals. One night we were at this dinner in Lausanne. My boyfriend, who was a painter, was there too. And suddenly I felt something under the table – it was Jean-Luc’s hand. He gave me a piece of paper and then left to drive back to Geneva. I went into another room to see what he’d written.  It said, “I love you.  Rendezvous at midnight at the Café de la Prez.” And then my boyfriend came into the room and demanded to see the piece of paper, and he took my arm and grabbed it and read it.  He said, “You’re not going.” And I said, “I am.” And he said, “But you can’t do this to me.”  I said, “But I’m in love too, so I’m going.” But he still didn’t believe me. We drove back to Geneva and I started to pack my tiny suitcase.  He said, “Tell me you’re not going.” And I said, “I’ve been in love with him since I saw him the second time. And I can’t do anything about it.” It was like something electric. I walked there, and I remember my painter was running after me crying. I was, like, hypnotized – it never happened again to me in my life.

So I get to the Cafe de la Prez, and Jean-Luc was sitting there reading a paper, but I don’t think he was really reading it. I just stood there in front of him for what seemed like an hour but I guess was not more than thirty seconds. Suddenly he stopped reading and said,” Here you are. Shall we go?” So we went to his hotel. The next morning when I woke up he wasn’t there. I got very worried. I took a shower, and then he came back about an hour later with the dress I wore in the film - the white dress with flowers. And it was my size, perfect. It was like my wedding dress.

We carried on shooting the film, and, of course, my painter left. When the picture was finished, I went back to Paris with Jean-Luc, Michel Subor, who was the main actor, and Laszlo Szabo, who was also in the film, in Jean-Luc’s American car. We were all wearing dark glasses and we got stopped at the border – I guess they thought we were gangsters. When we arrived in Paris, Jean-Luc dropped the other two off and said to me, “Where are you going?”  I said, “I have to stay with you. You’re the only person I have in the world now.” And he said, “Oh my God.”





"I was so in love with you that I ignored how horribly you treated me."

You’re not a good person and that took me way too long to realize. (via headuphigh-middlefingerhigher)



ohsatsune:

“Like brittle pieces of broken shells barely put together by sleep, there was nothing to fill her out, nothing to hold her together.”

—  a shell in a storm, Jenn Satsune

[to read ‘a shell in a storm,’ click here]