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jillianfleck:

Bad Love Will Make a Museum of You by Jillian Fleck

jillianfleck:

Bad Love Will Make a Museum of You by Jillian Fleck

You will fall in love with me. Then, just months later, you will fall out. I will pretend the entire time that I don’t know it’s coming.
Miles Walser, excerpt from “A Sonnet of Invented Memories” (via larmoyante)

I don’t listen to music in the car anymore.
I listen to poetry so loud that the speakers
bump bump bump at all of the saddest parts.
today I saw a taxi driver cry as he checked his mail
and I wanted to stop to tell him somedays
I can’t walk outside without crying either
and somedays I feel like all I am is a taxi driver,
escorting old loves to their true destiny.

the day you left I wiped my tears on a white washcloth
and my mother kept it in her hope chest so one day she can say,
“this. remember this. remember how far you’ve come.”
sometimes I write about how you broke my heart
but I really think I am writing about how I broke my own heart.

I’m not angry at you.
I remember the years, the days, the nights
that we danced by the water under the moonlight.
but I missed you when I was next to you
and I missed you when you were in the other room
and we tried so hard to make these plans hold firm.

I know you tried to keep a grip on reality
but some mornings the birds forget to sing
and the sun has to be reminded to rise and fall.
we set our clocks forward and back to make up for the days
the sun sleeps in or stays out past curfew
and darling our sun may have set
but I still feel the burn on my back.
I still feel the burn on my back.

I hope my moonlight catches your eye as you’re driving at night
and I hope your sun shines so bright on a new love.
I hope you found a way to keep your tires from always popping
and I hope you found a way to get better rest.
I hope the books on your shelf still excite you
and when you hear that song, I hope you think of me and smile.
but mostly, I hope you make yourself proud.

because you weren’t proud of yourself
as you tucked me in all those nights.
maybe because we ran into love full force.
and I’m afraid a love like ours is a one-shot kinda thing
but we fucked it up somewhere between casseroles
and planning a wedding that I forgot to invite myself to.

after all those years together
I can’t remember how your voice sounded saying my name.
somedays I wish I never met you,
just so I could meet you tomorrow.

I wish I didn’t grow old with you so young.

I wish I could have saved you for later.

we set our clocks forward and back to make up for the days  the sun sleeps in or stays out past curfew/d.a.h (via whisperingbones)
You are at once both the quiet and the confusion of my heart.

They call me
“romantic” with
knives between
their lips, as if I am
asking for each word
to be built from the
ground from flower
beds and open
hearts.

They do not
understand
my romance.

I want to be strung
up by my ankles,
ripped open, emptied,
and told that what
I am made of is
beautiful, even as it
stains the kitchen
floor, your skin, our
conversations.

There is infinite
romance in truth.

I do not want to be
bottled, gathering
time in your shelves
until your birthday
or a bad night or
after she leaves when
you just need
something to help
you fall asleep.

In my romance,
I am not
swallowed whole.

to be the last romantic, Emma Bleker (via stolenwine)
Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you’re in love or you’re partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don’t know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something.
Brandon Oda (via gisellefleurys)
Associate with the noblest people you can find; read the best books; live with the mighty; but learn to be happy alone.
Saul Bellow; Ravelstein  (via eightysevens)
What I feel for you can’t be conveyed in phrasal combinations; It either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but I promise — it beats words. It beats worlds. I promise.
Katherine Mansfield, The Collected Stories (via girlinlondon)
Real love doesn’t meet you at your best.

It meets you in your mess.

J.S.   (via tides-of-a-freespirit)

Fuck. That’s kinda powerful.

(via blackwhiteandcolour)

Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.

Some days
you will fight
and it will
never
be enough.

Some days
you will crawl
calm as the sea.

You are allowed
to sink into your bed.
You are allowed
to jump into the fire.

I have yet
to outrun myself,
no matter
how often I have tried.

Michelle K., Changing Seasons. (via michellekpoems)
The Differences Between Us Are The Same

officialiwrotethisforyou:

image

If you’re like me, then I know you’re trying. And I want you to know that if I ever stop, I’d want you to carry on.

my dad said he didn’t want anything to do with me anymore
because he already paid off his child support.
It made me wonder if when I pay off my student loans,
my degree will have no longer have value either.

I have to get my tonsils removed.
I know I’ve talked circles about the one who walked away
but I feel like he is a piece of me that I don’t really need,
that causes me so much pain and for some reason I put off removing.
apparently the surgery is worse on adults,
apparently the recovery process is hell
but my doctor says I’ll live a better life
if I just face the facts and do it.
my mother said I cried when I lost my first tooth,
I didn’t understand that I didn’t need it anymore.
I never wanted to lose my innocence,
I never wanted to remove the pieces of my body
that my mother grew for me,
I never wanted to say goodbye
to someone that made me feel whole
or to bury the pieces of him that I had
when he left me feeling broken.

my brother told me that everybody has to die
as he looked at his garden.
he said we are orcas
I laughed until he got quiet
and said we are orcas because he knows that
his daughter will have always have a family
long after he’s gone.
they say an entire orca pod stays together for life,
they say each pod has it’s own dialect and language.
they say orcas have a larger part of their brain
for emotions than humans,
that the mother will sometimes carry
her deceased child in their mouth for a week before letting them go.
my brother is 31 and instead of thinking
about the flowers on his daughter’s wedding day,
he thinks of what flowers he wants next to his casket.
I don’t want to admit this,
I don’t want to think about this
but I can’t ignore it either.

If I could stand in your driveway
with my tears in a jar and my happiness in another
I swear to God I’d hand you every smile I had left in me,
I swear to God I’d give you every laugh for the rest of my life.
even when we hit our funny bone,
we wince while everyone else laughs.
I’d slam myself into the corner of every table
just to see you smile.

I’ve spent too many nights
trying to write poems to the wounded,
hoping my words can heal someone.
you say that it’s too hard to watch me self-destruct.
tonight I wonder if I should have written those poems to myself.
but my life is an open book, you see
life hurts and life isn’t fair
but I can’t pretend sadness isn’t bittersweet
when you of all people know
that even the caterpillars weep when their friend
becomes a butterfly before they are ready
to say goodbye.

you are my friend until the end and if your wings forget how to fly,
you can have mine. I love you. //d.a.h (via whisperingbones)
How slow life is, how violent hope is.
Guillaume Apollinaire (via likeafieldmouse)
I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry.
Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation.
It all comes with love.
Anna Akhmatova, The Akhmatova Journals, Volume I: 1938-1941 (via whentheheartwaits)