“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those.”—Sylvia Plath (via sharingneedles)
I left my favorite pair of underwear at your house. I know your mother hates me, can I come pick them up?
It’s been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
I didn’t know my bones could ache until I met you.
You know, a week before we broke up, do you remember? I had bought a book of poetry. You asked why I didn’t read something more interesting and I could feel my insides splinter.
You said poetry was all lies dressed up to sound pretty. When I look at you these days, I want to ask if sadness sounds pretty to you too.
It’s 3 a.m. and this alcohol tastes like you.
I saw you staring at me today during Lit class. I smiled at you and you didn’t smile back. I almost cried.
The girl who sits next to me smells like you.
I miss you.
I have never had so many bad nights.
Sometimes I write poetry about you on the internet. Strangers who have never met either of us think you’re cruel – they tell me if they had the honor of loving me, we’d have sex three times a day and they’d scream my name when they came.
They think it is beautiful, how I am broken. I don’t think they understand.
You used to tell me I was beautiful. I tried saying it in the mirror the other day, but it sounded wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
Everything I say sounds wrong without your mouth wrapped around it.
We were never in love, but, oh God, we could have been.
“To the boy I used to love: I am adjusting to the spaces
you left behind, the emptiness that beats in me like the
muffled drone of catechisms or a Catholic’s last rites.
Your name tastes like the medicine I took as a child to
keep my lungs from filling with fluid. My knees are bruised
from all the praying I’ve been doing of late. Tell me, love, do
you miss me yet? You can’t be entered by another human
being without sustaining damage, you know. You taught me
that. Someday soon my answer to the question, “How are
you?” will be genuine. I’m good. I’m great. I’ve scrubbed my
skin raw. Your promises were weeds in my nail bed. 150 days,
I’m still picking at my cuticles like there’s some hidden treasure
I’m bound to find. I am changing the locks to my back door. My
front door is always open, but listen, you will have to knock. I
will not be home. Leave a note. Etch your calling card above
the threshold, scrawl your name along the doorframe. I’ve left
the lipstick out for you. I’ve found it works nearly as well as a
ballpoint pen. The last words you ever said to me: “Thank you.”
I’ve never been good at saying goodbye. This is the last poem
I’ll write about you.”—Brianna Albers, “Poem for the Day I Deleted Him on Skype” (via perfect)
You know what? I’m hungry. So instead of ignoring that, I’m going to go and eat. I don’t care if it’s cheese-its, an orange, or a LUNA bar, I’m going to eat whatever the hell I want. And I’m not going to feel guilty after, because I deserve food.