[H]ere we are at the place

          where I get to beg for it

where I get to say  Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our

clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?

          or will I say

Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, you owe me this much, you can indulge me

this at least, can’t you?  but we both know how it goes. I say  I want you inside me

 and you hold my head underwater, I say   I want you inside me

and you split me open with a knife. I’m battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,

I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say  I’ll give you anything.

          But you never come through.

Do I have to

          tie your arms down?

Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary

like it’s just another petty theft? It makes me tired. Do you see what I mean?

          Do you see what I’m getting at?

You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling  Strike me. Strike anywhere.

 I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search

          my body for the scars, thinking

Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in?   I know you want me to say it,

it’s in the script, you want me to say  Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted

          and worth dying for too

…I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your

slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this

          bullet inside me

‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like

I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,

          like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.

Do you want it? Do you want anything I have?

          If you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?

-wishbone, richard siken (abridged)

8ngstyteen:

“I made orange juice from concentrate and showed her the trick of squeezing the juice of one real orange into it. It removes the taste of being frozen. She marveled at this, and I laughed and said, Life is easy. What I meant was, Life is easy with you here, and when you leave, it will be hard again.”

— Miranda July

(Source: setonlazalier, via nopeeeeeeeeeee)

For The Dead by Adrienne Rich

tenfiretrucks:

I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight

howwillitbetolieinthesky:

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
                            and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man your married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Stanley Kunitz

(via im-just-white)