THM
I know I don’t do this enough,
But if you ever cared about me at all,
I need you to tell me.
I know I can get through this,
But I don’t feel like being alone
Anymore. This time,
I’m not waiting for you to ask me if I’m okay,
And I’m not going to tell you that I am.

I’m going to say I’m sorry instead:
I’m sorry.
It never occured to me
That I was being selfish with my life,
But here I am now.
I will share at least this with you.
3 weeks ago 8 — Reblog
1 month ago 4632 — Via you-deserve-nothing © yashechReblog
It’s been better lately. I no longer
think of you first thing in the morning,
and I can finally fall asleep without
wondering if you are out there
right now, your body tied around
someone else’s body,
whose body does not belong to me.
I haven’t been punishing myself
as much lately. And even if I
know now that I was always
in the wrong, I can finally accept
that there is nothing that I
can do about that now.
I haven’t been thinking of you
as much lately. The image
of your face no longer makes
my mind ache with thoughts
of the things that I could have done,
and how if maybe I would have
held on for a little bit longer,
you may still be here with me.
Strangely enough though,
ever since you left,
things have been feeling a lot
easier lately. And I think
that might be because since
you’ve been gone, I’ve had time
to realize that life is
much more simple when you
are not always over-thinking
every move that you make.
"Lately," - Colleen Brown (via mostlyfiction)
2 months ago 1012 — Via mostlyfiction © mostlyfictionReblog
The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.
Vladimir Nabokov (via larmoyante)
2 months ago 9021 — Via larmoyante © larmoyanteReblog

I don’t know what this is called. They didn’t teach it to me in school. My hands hurt, is it supposed to be like this? Craned necks, slouched backs, darkened circles: hairline cracks. I wake up at 7AM every morning for this. He asked me what I meant when I said that it was all over, and I told him I don’t know what it’s called. Over, over, my God, is it really just beginning?

This is the end of an era. This is the start of a new chapter. I don’t know what it’s called but so much is over and I am so, so hungry. I walk through the hallways hoping to find the words that I made when everything was new, three and a half years ago. I think I could use them now. But all I see is the end of an era, the start of a new chapter, and I am famished, holy fuck, it wasn’t supposed to be like this at all, was it?

They keep telling me to keep in touch and call and text and well, we can always come back home on the weekends, right? They don’t know what it’s called, either. I know that everyone does it but I don’t think I’m doing it well enough. No, these were not the best years of my life but they feel right even when they’re wrong. Maybe it’s too late for nostalgia; I don’t care. Goddammit I miss it all.

I keep saying this is the end of an era, but I think I mean lifetime. Say chapter, say commencement, say new beginnings, say leaving the nest. Say whatever you like; euphemisms won’t feed this aching fear. Say graduation. That’s what it’s called anyway, isn’t it?

"Commencement Is a Stupid Name for It" by K.E.
2 months ago 3 — Reblog
I still remember
That one Friday,
When you told me
That you normally wouldn’t date
A girl with a habit
Of building doorways into her forearms,
But I was special.
Special, huh?
I was feeling something,
But special wasn’t it.
"I Understand That Was Supposed to be a Compliment" by K.E.
2 months ago 4 — Reblog
Come back? Is that what you said?
To what?
I left the side door open, yes, I know.
I just didn’t have the heart
To lock the cat out,
That’s all.
There is no back.
And even if there was,
What would I do with it?
"Many Happy Returns" by K.E.
2 months ago 7 — Reblog

This is not a poem. This is not an alibi, and this is not something for you to hang over my head. This is how I feel. These are my words spread out on a surface where you can’t always take back what you didn’t mean to say when tensions were high.

I wish you would understand that love doesn’t just disappear. It slowly fades away as the sound of giving up makes its way through the hallways of attempted forgiveness. You shouldn’t always assume that you are the center of my meaning. You only hear what you want so you are able to think that there is something that proves your point when it comes to having a reason for you to just walk away.

I should probably just tell you how I feel instead of watching you circle around the answer; oblivious to harshness of your actions. You should know me by now, and you should know that I am only as strong as my heart is. And to tell you the truth, it’s a part of me that hasn’t been holding its own weight lately. I hide things from you because I am afraid that one day you are going to use my fears as leverage.

To tell you the truth, you were the only person who has ever been able to make me question my purpose, and sometimes, even if you don’t want to admit it, you use that in your advantage; turning my desires into dreams, and showing me that the future is as far away from me as my past.

But when I held you in my arms for those short moments before you had to leave my bed and return to the one that you made for yourself, I couldn’t help but to feel as if there was more than just comfort that you were seeking. But the feeling of absolute safety; a safety that wouldn’t be found in someone as vulnerable as myself.

"You don’t have to be sorry, but you should be more cautious," - Colleen Brown (via mostlyfiction)
2 months ago 808 — Via mostlyfiction © mostlyfictionReblog
There were:
Splintered doorframes and the rings
That your coffee left on the table.
The car slowing down in the background.
Your green boots and the taste of salt.
You hit the ground so hard that day,
I swear, you were going into battle.
I swear you didn’t come back:
No injuries, no casualties,
Just a retired war hero with a vodka crutch.
Do you think you earned whatever badge
They gave you while you were unconscious?
I saw the bruises first, remember that.
You, with your flesh wounds, you are not
Glorious because you suffer.
You are not glorious because you forget
The rifle on the doorstep.
Gun and half-full mugs, well,
They aren’t the same.
"Conscription" by K.E. 
2 months ago 2 — Reblog
2 months ago 70524 — Via star-place © creativeinfinitekaykayReblog
These things get old. I’m tired of talking about my bones like a ninety-year-old lady, tired of having to use either “empty” or “hollow” when referring to my eyes. I’m tired of singing eulogies instead of birthday songs and I’m tired of rubbing salt into scars. I can’t even remember where I learned to want misery so well, but I did. Oh God, I did. And no, dear, nothing is wrong. Everything is okay. I just see the open bay and want to wade in, that’s all. Stop worrying; I know it’s getting old. Just give me a minute. Let me hear one last eulogy. This is a four-year-old mistake that I’m not done making.
K.E. 
2 months ago 2 — Reblog
Don’t sink into loneliness.
Don’t ask for it.
People can be stupid, you see,
And they will actually give it to you.
"Four Years Done Wrong" by K.E.
3 months ago 1 — Reblog

I didn’t mean to say goodbye,
Really, it was more of a “I’m having
A lovely time with you but
There are things I’ve been hiding
For far too long and I’m afraid you
Won’t like them as much as I like you,
And oh god don’t look at me
when I’m crying.”

I saw your eyes just then.
You’ve been telling yourself that it’s okay
To say goodbye, that all lovely things
must have an expiration date,
But I don’t think it works like that.
Come back.
Look at me when I’m crying.
It seems to be a lot more often,
Now that I don’t have you.

"It Could Never Be You (It Was Always Me)" by K.E.
3 months ago 2 — Reblog
My bones used to talk,
But now everything feels brittle,
Fragile and wrong inside me.
How am I supposed to get anywhere
With the bones of a ninety-year-old lady
Who has been welcoming death since
The hour she woke up?
"It Wouldn’t Be Called Euthanasia" by K.E.
3 months ago 2 — Reblog
Those bad days
Were my good days, too,
Although I’m not sure they were even days.
Is that what they’re called now, days?
Because from where I’m standing,
They were more like summer nights in winter,
More like taking entire weeks to fall asleep,
More like my sixth grade all over again,
More like a decade and he wasn’t there,
More like timelines painted against wristbones,
More like a waterlogged history textbook in my throat,
More like five years old and confused about slammed doors,
More like an eternity waiting for his reply.
More like 2013 come and gone, and I’m still here.

"The Bad Or Good First?" by K.E. 

Taken from somewhere in the shadow of Kristina Haynes’s work, and in particular this poem: http://fleurishes.tumblr.com/post/72512640962/2013. <3

3 months ago 22 — Reblog