“It was a Saturday when he finally told me that he understood why I wrote about things that hadn’t happened. “You’re not a liar, you just remember all the lives you used to live. It’s like whatever hand comes through us when we die and wipes the slate clean forgot about you. You’re living in hundreds of different bodies and you never know which one is bleeding.”
One day, he told me that he felt the bones of a jazz singer who died from heartbreak when he touched me. He told me he could hear her voice melting my tongue with trumpets. He told me I tasted like whiskey when we kissed.
and I love him better than anyone. I love him in each body and each person who whispers like a ghost in my veins. We dance in my cluttered living room and sing along to Etta James like there isn’t anywhere to be. He loves so hard, it hurts. The shoemaker from Paris likes to talk through me, somedays. She likes to kiss his feet and talk about French cinema. The painter from Greece likes to trace his jawbone as if it’s the road leading up to her house. She likes to run her fingers along his spine and count the steps to her front door. He has found names for all of the people I have been. He has a list of all the colors that each of them are. I am white, because he says that’s the only color he can see after he looks into the sun. The little boy who couldn’t speak, but played the piano like Mozart, was blue. The nun who prayed to God until her throat bled was purple. He sits with me while I write my poems. He smiles and names the color. Baby blue, black, yellow, cerulean, gold, green.
He is red. The kind of red that has a pulse. It beats angry and persistent in my hands. When we kiss, he pulls my heart out with his teeth. Neither one of us apologize for the blood”—Colors | Caitlyn S. (via alonesomes)
when women devour
it is for survival
when women take more than they give
it is self-preservation
where did we start looking
what day was it?
how many times have we
borrowed from our own bones
just to keep moving?
how many of us are empty
when we take, it is already
when we give, it is expected
and I am so proud of the monster
in my blood
she fought so hard to be this
they showed me the world
told me I could have it
if I just gave a little something
crack my chest open
and I will spill pomegranate seeds
into your hands
what they don’t tell you about Eve
the forbidden fruit
was her own heart
“if the tables were turned,
I would have left me a long time ago.
if the tables were turned,
I would have burned the place to the ground after I left.
I don’t know how you did it.
any of it.
I don’t know how you stayed as long as you did,
while I drank wine out of coffee mugs
and stole all your quarters
and drank your orange juice
and slept through breakfast
and screamed when you cried.
if the tables were turned,
I would have hit the ground running
after the first night.
I would have cut my losses
and taken my toothbrush out of your bathroom.
I wasn’t crazy.
I was desperate.
it was too much love and
for someone as whole as you
and someone as empty as me.
in retrospect, we both should have
seen the collision coming.
two cars, all screeching metal,
trying to kiss.
if I were you, I would have flown
face first through the windshield.
my trash can is full of
half-finished letters and orange rinds.
if I ever find the courage to
complete a thought without it trailing off into a howl,
I will send you an apology.
a real one.
the kind they talk about in movies.
I’m sorry I never learned how to walk before I ran.
I’m sorry about the mirror,
but I wanted pieces of your reflection
in between my knuckles.
I’m sorry for the blood.
I’m sorry for the burnt coffee.
I’m sorry for my mouth.
for how many times I used it to hurt you.
this is a blanket apology
to keep you warm at night,
because I know you like
to sleep with the window open,
even in the Winter.
I loved you like something dying.
all hands and legs and twitches,
like I could never stay still.
I loved you like a first kiss.
sloppy and unsure.
an open mouth and too much tongue.
sorry for the mess,
but I miss the way you taste.”—the way you taste | Caitlyn S. (via alonesomes)
how do you people do it? how do you carry your tragedies next to your victories? how do you hold it all inside of you? god, sometimes I see it peeking out of certain wounds, and I want to kiss them and feel the stories on my mouth. I think I could break open with love. I carry your losses like…
“How many faces, how many bodies can you recognize, with your eyes closed, only by touching them ? Have you ever closed your eyes and acted unconsciously ? Or loved someone so blindly, you could almost feel their energy in a dark room and be moved by the powerful touch of their ideas ?”—Jean Baudrillard,Journal, 1981 (via letters-to-nobody)
“there is a city named after us. no one hits their lovers or their dogs there, no one howls at the moon. it is quiet in the mornings and everyone eats fresh fruit from the markets. people laugh when they wake up. some even sing. this morning I heard the Spanish woman from next door singing her baby back to sleep with a honey lullaby. I pressed my ear to the wall and fell asleep there.
there is a city named after us. it is warm, and everyone hangs their clothes out to dry. When the wind blows, the backyards are full of dancing ghosts. sometimes we join them.”—there is a city named after us | Caitlyn S. (via alonesomes)
“The story so far:
In the beginning the Universe was created.
This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.”—Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe (via larmoyante)
“The best day of your life is the one on which you decide your life is your own. No apologies or excuses. No one to lean on, rely on, or blame. The gift is yours. It is an amazing journey, and you alone are responsible for the quality of it. This is the day your life really begins.”—Bob Moawad (via larmoyante)