Words can wound, and wounds can heal.
All of these things are true.
written by Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: short fictions and wonders (via rauchwolken)
This is the way we love. She said,
if there were more than one moon I wouldn’t know
what to do or where to begin.
If the fog never lifts, the city’s still
there. She said, some things only know
one way to hide. This is the way we love,
she said, with a shotgun
under the bed. Under your skin the bone is setting.
And her hand smoothed the skin.
And her hand set the bone.
written by Brian Russell, “Shotgun Under The Bed” (via oofpoetry)
hiding under the table
while my parents have conversations
I can only pretend to understand.
Sneaking a cigarette off the man
who cried at their wedding,
because he’s choking back tears on my back deck
at the memory of my mother
standing at the alter,
eyes lit up with a future that didn’t involve him.
I can smell summer in the air
and I’m alone in the dark with a man who, too, can’t bear feeling alone in a room full of people
and I’ve never missed you more
than I miss you now.
I fell for you, once
and I’ve been falling ever since.
written by Rosie Scanlan, Tart (via rosieluella)