my love is one to break every bended knee
We are all primary numbers divisible only by ourselves.
Jean Guitton (via showslow)

1. This town, with its bleeding jaw, gutted my childhood. I buried my grandfather last summer in a citrus field, and I have not been able to eat oranges since. I still remember his cloudy cataracts, his gentle hands. He told me there was beauty in being untouchable – this is why I lock the doors.

2. Some love is soft, I know, but not this kind – this kind slams drawers and ignores the screaming. Your mouth was like formaldehyde. Your hands were silver scalpels, were ragged teeth. Do not touch me with your liar’s bones. I hope she tastes the poison you keep tucked under your tongue for the girls you want to break. I hope that, when she leaves you, you have no one to pick up the pieces. I hope you rot in this town.

3. I spent sixteen tangerine winters in this city like split knuckles, like an open wound, and I can still taste the burning. I want to eat Manhattan and climb through its throat to Chicago. I want to touch the very ground God walked upon. When asked what I want for Christmas, I say miles, miles, miles.

4. I keep breaking bones just to get back up. The band aids on my knuckles are from punching walls and slashing tires. They never have the chance to heal. I do not know what I look like without violence on my palms.

5. This town – bleeding jaw, split belly. Town like childhood, town like funeral bells. Town like angels dying. Town like your eyes, bruised and blackened. You were not gentle with my heart, so I hope that you rot in this gutted city, with your mouth clasped to hers. I hope she sucks out your soul: I want you broken. I burnt down your heart long before she loved you – you are a monument, yes. But you are not beautiful, your ribs are a ruin, and when you kiss, it tastes like smoke. This is why I left you. This is why I lock the doors.

5 Reasons I Lock the Doors | d.a.s

so bored @ work i started doodling all these shit comics on business cards


so bored @ work i started doodling all these shit comics on business cards

I wonder how many alternate universes i’ve died in


In a parallel universe,
the Truckee River floods every two years.
My life is punctuated by muddy waters, fallen trees,
the corpses of farm animals
bloated and damp.
Birthdays don’t exist.
I get the spontaneous urge
to kiss you on the last day in November.
In a parallel universe,
we are still together.
Our love exists as a snake bite
and I am the one that is supposed to
suck the venom out.
Each time a deer gets hit by a car
the car dies.
My brother sits in his room,
sweating, alone
tasting steel with that gun in his mouth.
In a parallel universe, he doesn’t take it out.
I am telling myself I want love
I am telling myself I only want love
In a parallel universe,
We are all making the same beautiful mistakes.


Its October somewhere
and the the oak leaves are writing love stories with
the way they embrace the ground
like they’ve lived their whole life for that moment
I wanted you to fall for me like that.

It’s winter now
your eyes finally match the ice
I figure you’re in love with someone else now
I hope they like the cold.

Its October somewhere
and the blackberries are ripe.
All those thorns
I still have scars from reaching.


when you kiss me i taste
like a water fountain full of old pennies.

when i blink the universe dies
for me for a second.

when i drive home i only make it
through the panic attack by saying,

"maybe i’ll die but whatever who cares".

you’re not there and this isn’t poetry
and nothing makes sense.

The three old women in the hospital waiting room
have been brushing their hair for two hours. A blind man
walks outside, palms the wall. Finds a door. Leaves.

Somewhere, there is crying.
I’m lying on the carpet of the hospital waiting room,
a boot pressing my chest into the ground.
I’m not wearing a bra. My mother gasps.

The blind woman isn’t breathing.
The blind man is looking for her, palming the wall.
The fake plants are dying. A doctor sticks a needle
into my back, brushes my hair soft and pretty.
Licks the sores in my mouth. Tell me,

did you just notice the bruises now?
Somewhere, there is crying, but we don’t worry
about it and we don’t feel sorry. An old woman
is peeling her face off, flaking away.

A girl is crying on the carpet of a hospital waiting room.
It smells like laundry detergent. I am palming your chest.
You touch my hair, soft and pretty. A drunk surgeon
stumbles out of the operating room,

licks the sores in my mouth. I’m waiting
for someone to apologize. Look down.
Hats off in respect. Gloves off in respect.
There was a misunderstanding this morning,

the sky so orange I threw up
on a surgeon’s green gown. Somewhere,
there is crying, hair like snow, drifting soft
and pretty to the ground.

Feels Like We Only Go Backwards
Tame Impala
922 plays


Feels Like We Only Go Backwards - Tame Impala


This is the fever dream
the burning in my throat
the rash
the infection
the scab that would heal if I could stop picking
This is desire
a sweet sickness
a wound festering under the skin
a viral infection
multiplying inside me
this always wanting
this cancer of the blood
have you ever thought so hard
about hospitals?