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“I thought I understood your longing—it looked so much like mine.”

— Rebecca Lindenberg, excerpt of “Love, An Index”, from Love, An Index

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good poetry makes me want to kill myself but by staying alive

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only 5 more minutes in the last year we loved each other.

are you thinking about me too?

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#mtl

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“I still don’t know how to love someone without swallowing them.”

— Give Me a God I Can Relate To, Blythe Baird. (via 79w)

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Can I please just sit on the edge of a crescent moon like once in my life

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livres d'arcadie à new orleans

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Are you better sober from me?

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Why did I let her take so much from me?

I can’t write poetry or drink wine or laugh like I used to.

There’s a resounding emptiness here and when I cry the echos off of the barren walls sounds exactly like her name.

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can someone please change the fucking prophecy

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I CAN SEE TROUGH YOU

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sometimes a theme recurs in your work without your permission. and sometimes it reaches a threshold where you're like. well now i think this is saying something about me against my will. don't know what though

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being alive is like: you want to go home. you don't know where home is. you want to go home. you don't know where home is. you want to go home. you haven't known for a long time. you want to go home but you don't know where you'd go. you want to go home you want to go home you want to go home