I wrote a poem about it, and then threw it away, because that’s the last thing I need right now: More words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.
― Thought Catalog  

(Source: koizoraa)

11:19 pm  •  15 July 2014  •  133,913 notes
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
Sylvia Plath,Fever 103°.” from Ariel: The Restored Edition (via lifeinpoetry)
4:36 am  •  14 July 2014  •  1,751 notes
Breaking ice


I keep going back to your face, amidst mismatched continental disconnections and warped time zones. 7 days and it has caused a 7 month itch, spreading through my chest to my fingertips once scathed with Italian snow and your milk white skin. I’m sorry my eyes aren’t lidded with an exotic deep set, sorry my jaundice is incomparable to white against white; beauty in paleness, sorry I tied fitted ribbons across the webbed cavities of your foreign palm, dragging you home.


You do not belong here. Not in the sweltering heat, burning a hole in faded mental photographs I have of you. The humidity will wash off whatever colour you had left on your cheeks. Call me naive, and yet I will find you where you are meant to be found. Not in some lousy excuse of a memory, but in an autumn dream; ribbons aflutter before finding escape in the drifting wind.

11:05 am  •  10 July 2014  •  1 note
after the flood

soak me with your leaky faucets of salt water tears and wide eyed naïveté

11:55 am  •  5 July 2014