the first time i met you, you asked me why hickies
looked a lot like bruises. i wondered if you could tell
them apart.

you spent nights at my house whispering words like
ancient secrets. “its true, if boys are really mean to you
it means they like you”.

i picked you up off the floor and washed your clothes.
i didn’t think the stains were red dye #9

you yelled at me. said no one would ever love a pusher.
that i should stop forcing you into things, i asked how you loved him than.

you gave me bracelets you made when you’re sad and
too sore to walk. i gave you kisses and said, rain makes
flowers grow.

i saw your brother today. he asked me if i knew
why the slate on your headstone matched the grey
in your eyes.

your mother blames me. i got high one night
and told her that i taught you how to cover
your face with makeup.

They blame me. I blame me.

The Ritual
The Ritual


Three times a day, I ask if she’s eaten. A minute ticks by
as my heartbeat quickens. Another minute, and nausea rises

in my throat. My phone lights up with a response.
As if someone has stopped squeezing my heart, it settles,

and I thank her for eating, for keeping it down. Now I wait again

"For the longest time, it didn’t matter that you didn’t love me in return. I had no hopes of that. I was content just knowing I made you smile. But hope is the most determined little weed of all—it will grow in the smallest crack of the most barren cement, and it will envelop it with its vines, and it will burst into multitudes of reeking blooms, and it will not be crushed. And so I was enchanted, for I had no other flowers to nurture, no other garden whatsoever to give purpose to the bleak days of that blackest summer I ever knew. I loved you, but no longer purely. I loved you, but with expectations. I loved you, and selfishly, I hoped."

The truth is that you are always going to be losing things. You will lose an earring down the depths of the sink, or your socks in that strange dimension between the wash and your drawer. You will lose your first tooth when you are seven. For days you will run your tongue absent-mindedly over the gap and startle, yet again, at the strange loss of something you had always believed was a permanent part of you.

Later you will go on to lose your favorite toy at a foreign hotel, and too many tears over the schoolyard gossip that made its way back to you. You will lose your heart to a boy whose voice cracks a little when he teases you, who smiles at you with the sun rising in his eyes. Months later you will find yourself losing faith in what you had thought to be love.

You will lose car keys, and phone numbers, and parcels in the mail. You will lose time. You will lose sleepless nights, and childhood dreams, and God only knows how many times you will lose hope in life.

So here is the sad, harsh truth: the earth is always going to spin on its axis, the tides are always going to change, and you are always going to be losing things. But there are some things you will learn to come to terms with, even when they disappear. These are the things that might be better off gone, and the people who do not deserve to claim a spot in your life. This is the little alphabet on paper that does not define you, or your self-worth. This is the friend who stopped holding on after all those times you reached your hand out. This is the boy who said he would call but never did.

Some things can be replaced, like bobby pins or name cards or ballpoint pens. There are some things you will learn to let go of, and there are others you will learn you should’ve held on tighter to. These are the things that will leave gaping holes behind in their absence, which you will try – and fail – desperately to fill. These are the things you must learn to fight for. These are the people you must chase after, the friendships you must not take for granted.

You are always going to be losing things, it’s true. But some things are worth the fight, and some aren’t, and this is just one of those little things you learn along the way.

Of Love and Loss, by ironedout (via ironedout)
"Call her up and tell her to meet you at the park
where you used to play back before life was cruel.
When she sits next to you on the bench, don’t let
your voice waver as she sighs about coming out in
the cold. Tell her you sleep with your tennis shoes
on just encase you need to quickly run out the back
door like you did when her 3rd husband mistook
her brittle bones for prey. tell her how halloween
doesn’t scare you, because you saw masks every
night at the dinner table. tell her how you can’t walk
down the isle of a store without thinking which
foundation is best for covering bruises. how the smell
of flowers sounds like shattering vases against
the wall. how i love you sounds like slammed doors and skin against skin. how rooms with brown paint vacuum air
from your lungs. tell her you didn’t think god existed
until you met a boy who spoke about safe words and
door stoppers. and when she scowls and spits reasons
why she did what she did, take a deep breath and walk
away knowing that not everything is genetic."

How to tell your mother, she fucked you up.






I don’t trust the media, too many acronyms.  what does cnn stand for?  literally no one knows the answer

cable news network

could be.  literally no one knows



school cum

do you ever listen to a song and the best just seems wrong like it’s faster or slower than you remembered it was when you hit play