Love me less, but love me a long time.
"A savage desire for strong emotions and sensations burns inside me: a rage against this soft-tinted, shallow, standardized and sterilized life, and a mad craving to smash something up, a department store, say, or a cathedral, or myself.”
— Hermann Hesse (via carpethedamndiem)

fluttering-slips:

Absolute September

How hard it is to take September
straight—not as a harbinger
of something harder.

Merely like suds in the air, cool scent
scrubbed clean of meaning—or innocent
of the cold thing coldly meant.

How hard the heart tugs at the end
of summer, and longs to haul it in
when it flies out of hand

at the prompting of the first mild breeze.
It leaves us by degrees
only, but for one who sees

summer as an absolute,
Pure State of Light and Heat, the height
to which one cannot raise a doubt,

as soon as one leaf’s off the tree
no day following can fall free
of the drift of melancholy. 

Mary Jo Salter

"Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be.”
— Clementine Paddleford (via mylittlebookofquotes)
"In my defense, I’ve never met a carnival I could just walk away from. In my defense, I’ll always read your letters. In my defense, I tattooed my wrist to keep it safe.”
— SaraEve Fermin (from her poem, What You Call One Thing I Call Another” (via wordsdancemag)
"I wonder how you can look at anything and not feel your knees shake from the memory of it. I have been in your bed and cradled between your palms and your knees, in your shower and in the patch of sunlight that touches your room just before noon. Your sheets and your hair and your hips. Your lazy Saturday morning smile isn’t yours anymore. It’s mine. Look, there, you can see me. There’s my ghost. She’s waving at you. She’s saying ‘boy, you’ll need to burn this entire place down if you want to forget what happened here.’ She’s saying ‘man, all the ways we loved is splattered across these walls like murder.’”
The People You Loved Live Inside All The Places They Touched, Azra T. (via notebookings)
"Last night I dreamt that I broke all your teeth
with my bare knuckles,
left your liar’s mouth bleeding and raw.
I tore that smile off your face,
I stuffed it down your throat.
Your love was like a dust bowl, dry cracked dirt
staining beige over my bones,
kissing hard ground and scorched throat,
kissing sunburnt skin.
I told the priest to soak my body in holy water,
to exorcise you with Latin chants and incense smoke.
I told the healer fix me, get him out of my skin.
I told the doctor I would swallow all the pills if it meant
that I could learn to breathe again,
could taste the air without your mouth on mine.
I told the poet, write me better.
Write me happy.
Write me whole again.
— All These Words Still Taste Like You | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)
©