September 17, 2014

Maybe it’s me who’s this unstable
Always obsessed about the end
Why can’t I let what happens happen?
And just enjoy the time I spend
Oh how I wish it was so easy
But when there is no point to anything it can get a bit confusing
Why is that I keep going?
Why is that we keep going?

2:09pm
  
Filed under: bright eyes 
September 13, 2014
When my far away boy lover tells me his roommate is pregnant,

the first thing I think to say is I’m sorry.
On the counter, a fly floats dead in a pool of candy liquor.
I can’t fathom what it means to be a mother.
Since I’ve moved to a place with no ocean, my skin has developed an incurable itch.
I remember a dark walk through Brooklyn, the crash of a wave,
when my best friend cried she was leaking poison.

What would you do if your child swallows poison?
Frantic motion and screams of sorry,
as a tiny mouth writhes and foams like a wave.
For years, my parents didn’t know I drank liquor.
At times, thoughts of home seem an urgent itch.
I worry too much of my mother.

I’ve never envied the life of my mother,
nor all the days I made her choke on my poison.
To her I was once nothing more than an itch;
it’s easy in retrospect to say that you’re sorry.
Nine months, no liquor—
just the promise of life in your own body’s waves.

From my porch, I smile at a new neighbor’s wave,
but not every woman reminds me of my mother.
I miss pink candy tongues ripe with liquor—
it’s hard to imagine that a kiss could turn poison.
I wonder if my sister’s felt sorry
about a choice that’s burned worse than any itch.

It all seemed thrilling, once—an impossible itch, 
the call of the ocean’s vast wave.
Before me, my mother
filled her stomach with poison. 
For a long time I wondered to whom she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I like seeing her laugh full of cocktails and liquor

I used to worry that I drank too much liquor.
Every sip called to me like an itch.
Vodka tasted like poison,
but left me floating on the gentlest wave.
There are things I’d never tell my mother.
I haven’t yet decided if I’m sorry.

Every wave of love could mean mother, and no one needs to say sorry,
not for liquor, nor poison, nor the most shameful itch.

September 12, 2014

some days all you need is one good thought strong in your mind

(Source: Spotify)

8:11pm
  
Filed under: angel olsen 
September 11, 2014
"I am thinking of you.
What else can I say?"

— Margaret Atwood, from Postcards (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via loveyourchaos)

September 10, 2014
I FUCKING MISS BOSTON

September 9, 2014
http://comakid.tumblr.com/post/94319325349/the-moment-is-lost-the-moment-that-you-think-to

comakid:

the moment is lost the moment that you think to yourself: “this is a moment”

you are dog eared and yellow in the passenger seat of your friend’s car

your stomach feels like a turnstile and your shoes are untied and you are drinking cherry coke flavored melted ice

(a man reads an essay by soren…

September 9, 2014

comakid:

i will not give you
cut flowers
but i will plant
chrysanthemums
in the dead dirt
beneath your
window.

i will put everything
i need for one night
in my backpack
and then i will stay
out for a whole week.

i hope that the sound
of the rain reminds you
of your bones and then
makes you forget

and i hope that august
is holding you
in all of the ways that
i want to.

September 9, 2014

(Source: comakid)

September 9, 2014

comakid:

and the thorns that keep your head in place will stay intact
and maybe you will shed a petal on the lawn of someone who matters
and you’ll drink water from sinks with leaky faucets
and the sun will make your stomach shine
and something will 
and you’ll continue 

August 24, 2014

(Source: craigslistmirrors)

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