words – Page 15 – the moon is beautiful

love is a kind of violence. it is a knife, buried deep into my chest. it is my neck, bared open for you to slit.

so you want love soft? tough. (via wqlves)

blackbirds gnarled by the sun,
wings bent at a 90 degree.
ugly and desperate and
moving just to stay alive.

tides at midnight,
moon-bathed and tired
of an ancient push and pull,
this game worn thinner
than the gossamer bride veil
sparkling silver on the
black of the water.

willows draped unflinching,
unapologetic, unable
to grow apart.
clinging.
gleaming in the light.

Emily Palermo, A STUDY IN HOW OUR HANDS MOVE AT DAWN (via starredsoul)

today i did not dress for a funeral today i wear
the yellow dress & laugh with all my teeth
today my lost ones are not lost to me they live
in the wind that gathers my skirt

today this is my country today i say their names
& the all holes left behind shaped like blackgirls
& blackboys are lit up by hundreds of faraway stars

Safia Elhillo, “Self-Portrait With Yellow Dress,” published in Big Lucks (via bostonpoetryslam)

We’ve made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.

Richard Siken, “Wishbone” (via siriusorion)

Kiss this mouth made
raw and thick from burning. I’ve remade
myself, a thing of fire.

James Allen Hall, from “Putting the I Back In” (via petrichour)

I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.

Richard Siken
(via fy-perspectives)

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Robert Frost (via purplebuddhaproject)