Even Here

And you wonder how it ever got to this.
How in a city of so much warm blood and skin,
you’ve brambled such a thicket of razor wire around you
that you find yourself so
impossibly alone.
New York City.
It’s Broadway. It is bright lights.
It is the ultimate door that most the world won’t dare knock on.
So what..are you doing?
The nights you stay behind:
too much lipstick, an extra Bourbon,
pretend the baseball game in this bar is a language you actually understand.
The nights your eyes become magnets,
when you hurl your body last call like a “promise”-
I mean- how did you get here?
Was it the divorce? The bankruptcy? The nervous breakdown?
The six years of waiting for someone, anyone better?
Or was it your mother, drunk at the bottom of the stairs?
The emergency room lights.
The friend that plummeted seventeen silent stories like a jet engine?
The night sweats.
The way the rats seem to recognize your shoes.
Them cold New York winters
adding up like tic marks on a chalkboard.
The birthdays and the endless string of
not good enough, not smart enough, not enough-
and how did it ever get so drunk?
And drunk.
And lies. And fight. And dawn, and drunk.
How long since someone gathered you broken in their mouth?
What I mean is- when last did someone pull your hair tight?
Curve you like a swan’s neck?
What I mean is- what won’t you do for five minutes of someone’s
pressed into yours?
These boots are for unlacing.
These eyes are for sail.
These legs are for flight.
This mouth is a distraction,
I mean- I miss your hands.
Thank you.
These tiny thieveries push into the gentle tug
of a barber’s hands at your scalp.
Brush a cashier’s palm against yours.
Trace footsteps in a crowd.
Find the warm, still damp spots on subway handles-
I’m sorry.
Thank you.
I mean to say- come home with me.
I mean to say skin is a language.
I mean to say
I do it because I’m hurting, because I’m alone, because I’m weak.
I met you last night from behind-
I didn’t know your name.
Did I say love? I meant name.
I meant rumor.
I meant long girl on a long run and my joints don’t bend right.
I mean- what is your name?
I’m sorry.
My name is thirst, is starve.
I made this for you.
I wanted to tell you about my mother-
how her eyes like yours are a forgiveness.
I’ve been places I don’t want you to see.
I just want you here.
When my leg brushes yours- I mean to do it.
The long nights
and these same hands I have been using for
so many years-
I mean to say yes.
My name is now. My name means thief.
Means ache. Means move. Swell. Brick. Means live.
Means please.

Thank You | Adam Falkner & Jeanann Verlee.

So fucking important.

(via whale-bone)

(Source: bodylonging)

it gets under your skin sometimes
this itching
this sadness
and even on sunny days
it appears
holding you back from the joy of open windows
and legs stretching out of cars.

but this thing has no name
and when its there you want it gone
and you try to write it out
or put it into words
but nothing makes sense and nothing
looks right on paper.

you want to be lonely
you will always want to be alone.

— "alone" // esperanza friel  (via speioritur)



Source More Facts HERE

These dudes are fucking legit.  They don’t just show up one day in court, either, they actually make friends with the kids and let them know they have a support system and that there are people in the world who care about them and will always have their back.  And less important, but also cool, is that the few times a couple of them have come into my cafe, they’ve been super friendly and polite and when I told one of the guys that I noticed his Bikers Against Child Abuse patch and wanted him to know how awesome I thought he was because of it, he got kind of shy and blushed and said, “The kids are the awesome ones, we just let them know they’re allowed to be brave.”

I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he, who then lov’d most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produc’d a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her, that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practis’d it.
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I love her, that loves me.

But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the god of love.
O! were we waken’d by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her, who loves not me.

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I,
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too;
Which, since she loves before, I’am loth to see.
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
If she whom I love, should love me.

John Donne, Love’s Deity. 




(by Christian Pitschl)

Esben Bøg
Behold, I stand at the door and knock, but ye will not open;
Ye will not come unto me, and taste of life;
All day I wait with mine outstreched arms, and ye will not enter;
I fain would fold you beneath my wings, but ye will not come.
—  Sarah Williams, Baal.