Pauline, 21. I feel sad for their discounted hearts, their future bad fucks, the children they’ll only want some of the time. Tell me not to forget mornings I woke up in your hair, woke up on a hill on a mountaintop 30 degrees south of your ribs.
currently reading The History of England, Foundation (Peter Ackroyd)
And Selected Poems (e. e. cummings)
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.
…I’ll go on being
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of—
I am accused. I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.
Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices
Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
Yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
—you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
I taste her and realize I have been starving.
Jodi Picoult, Sing You Home
His body always kept,
Mine inside of it.
Keep the nightmares out,
Give me mouth to mouth.
Jack Kerouac, Haiku (the Taste…)
I dreamed about you again last night. I guess I dream about you every night. And most days, too. I hold your face in my mind. I put your voice together in my head. I think about your hair getting longer, I think about your belly getting bigger. I hear people talk about regret, but I haven’t got any. I don’t think poorly on the things that I have done. We did what we did and that is who we are. They’re going to cross out this sentence before you get to read it, but I know you know what it says. Every day I wake up thinking today’s the day I’m going to see you. And one of those days it will be so, and until then I’ll keep writing you. I’ll write you every day. And someday you’ll get a letter from me and you’ll look up and it’ll be me who’s handing it to you. And then we can forget about words and I’ll touch your face and I’ll kiss you.
Letter from Bob to Ruth, Ain’t Them Bodies Saints