Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
~ Falsely yours
Break my heart? Is that what you just said? I have news for you; you didn’t break my heart. My heart’s fine. My heart’s in the best shape of its life. You know what you did to me? You took an AK-47 and blew my soul open.
I knew you before I met you. I knew your cheeks would be made of sunshine. I knew rays of light would spill from your lips with your every smile. I knew you.
Sometimes you look at me and you ask me what I’m thinking. I smile, and I say “Nothing.” Truly, though, it is something. It’s the most beautiful something I’ve ever known.
-Do you still think i will destroy you?
-Yes, women always do that.
-I´m not a bomb, Ibrahim; i bleed as well, i had told you what i think about you, and more than once said how i felt, and you said how you felt.
-But that doesn´t change anything.
-Of what? “To love is to destroy, and to be loved is the one destroyed”, it does change something: you had opened to me.
-Damn, i never should have done that.
-You could have chosen not to say anything about yourself; you could have said no, but you did anyway. Are you afraid of me?
-I´m afraid of being hurt again.
-I wouldn´t break you.
-How could you know?
-Let me try, let me in.
-You are already too close.
-I won´t explode.
-It´s like you´re getting into the danger zone.
-Stop resisting me, i´m not kryptonite..
Alice: How long is forever?
White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.
I think about you when I see that blue melted ice cream color or when I touch a rusty nail and its flaky skin rubs off on mine. You’re always wearing black in my memories and I can feel my thumb track down your waist, guided by your sweater’s seam.
You will fall in love with someone who’s cold and always seemingly pushing you away. When all is said and done, they will be forever known as the one person you couldn’t get to love you. Unfortunately, it will hurt and sting worse than the good ones, the ones that chopped up your meat for you and picked out an eyelash from your eye and were nice to your mother, because love often feels like a game we need to win.
That there is a panic in my chest is not relevant. I am tired
of writing sad poems. Baby goats. Peanut Butter cookies.
Beyonce. There, Now it’s happy. I don’t know what it means
to be a good artist but I know how to read palms and draw
on my eyebrows like fucking Liz Taylor so I do have that.
This poem is for your eyes only. This poem is a knock-off
of a knock-off of a knock off. This poem is a purse bought
in Chinatown. The secret about this poem is it wishes it
were like all the other poems. The sequel to this poem is me
naked in bed beside you like every other night and me naked
in front of strangers like every other poem.
Happiness is not the absence of problems, but the ability to deal with them. Imagine all the wondrous things your mind might embrace if it weren’t wrapped so tightly around your struggles. Always look at what you have, instead of what you have lost. Because it’s not what the world takes away from you that counts; it’s what you do with what you have left.
I still think about you. I still sometimes think you’ll find something funny and practice how I’ll say it on the phone in my head for the few moments before I remember. Ex-smokers will flick their index to their middle finger trying to ash a phantom cigarette and that’s how I feel when I’m in my bed and I reach my left hand over and rub the fabric against my palm instead of feeling your skin.
Ella es demasiado sensata como para darle cabida a más días en esta relación, ella bien sabe que las segundas partes no son más que un revoltijo de las primeras y que cada día que pasamos juntos no es más que una destructiva contradicción, una estúpida idea de tenernos a tan corta distancia y querernos tanto, a destiempo y sin horario. Ambos sabemos que nos pertenecemos, que estamos conectados, que los momentos que pasamos se irán acumulando ,de a poco, despacio, e irán tejiendo una maraña de insensatas decisiones que nos llevaran al abismo del que habíamos salido la noche anterior.
Conoce cada movimiento de mi persona, cuantifica los minutos y comprende que algunas veces y a ciertas horas me convierto en lo que tanto llegué a odiar.
Ella es demasiado sensata como para darle cabida a más días en esta relación y sin embargo se encuentra buscando en mi, lo poco que le hace falta para alcanzar perfección.