The pressure of your lips on my skin
and the sound of your gentle whispers.
You haunt me,
cursing me with the memories of you.
Ones I tried to drown with salt tears
and sad songs,
but I cant erase you,
you’re like a tattoo.
It would more painful to remove you completely,
than to cover you up.
Yet I still want to scratch you off,
peel you away
and scrub my skin ‘til it’s sore.
You’re my drunk tattoo.
What a bad idea,
but oh, how good it seemed under your influence.
licking the ink from his lips
i taste his poetic soul
as it slips slowly down my throat
drowning me
his words always drown me
he runs his fingers down my spine
like a quill upon a page
and i hear their scrawl rake against my soul
maddening me
his touch always maddens me
“I have died many times.
Now, I know what you are thinking;
dramatic girl with too much time on her hands,
wears too much grey but never black like her coffee
likes to make her life seem like more than it is,
likes to call for attention in ways that
every other girl has before her
still in the hopes
that someone will see the stoplight out,
the darkness at her intersection and stop
instead of speeding up, trying not to get hit
by all of the supposed monsters lurking-
I promise, that is not what this story is.
I have died many times
and here is how I know,
every night for the past several weeks
I have been waking up from a deep sleep
never at the same time so I cannot pinpoint
a detail for you, sometimes it is 2:01 a.m. other times
it is four o’clock in the morning and once
it was a single minute before 7
and I caught my alarm in the moments
before it went blaring
though I have always had a fixation on time
it does not matter in this instance,
time is irrelevant because in my dreams
minutes feel like years,
I am waking up from whole lifetimes lived
with my heart beating louder in my ears
than a thousand horses hooves on a battlefield,
and I can almost tell you what that sounds like
as it fades from another dream-
I died in a stampede on Wednesday.
It is always different, always unexpected
burning in a house that feels like home
but looks so unfamiliar to what my waking self knows,
sinking to the bottom of a river
that feels like an old baptism,
stabbed, starved, left behind in the middle
of a pastoral pick up where the nomadic society
was moving spontaneously and I could not
fend for myself in the sea of grass,
drifting off to sleep as an old woman
and waking up in my skin again.
and I would call it a fixation on death,
many of you will,
but they feel like memories.
like a part of myself trying to reach out to convey
something that I don’t yet understand,
I keep reaching for an answer and I can only hope
that all of these lives, all of these deaths, all of these
maybe-memories-maybe-dreams mean:
live your life to the fullest
and don’t forget the things that make you human.”
- amateur past life deductions || O.L.
“We aren’t dating, but I’m afraid of someone new getting close to you.”
— (via love-diaries)
“I’d still love you, If the world stops spinning If heaven and hell tear us apart If you ever forget me I’d still love you, If I find out you weren’t made for me If these years in my life were nothing but a lesson If we were just a bad dream Darling, I’d still love you, If I never hold you in my arms If I never hear you speak I’d still love you, If one day I love another and If you don’t love me, I’d still love you”
— Richa Gill (@RiichaG_)
thepersonalquotes