...said the little prince," is that somewhere it hides a well..."-Antoine de Saint Exupery
I am spitting out your name in the back of my bedroom.
I am six beers in, but that’s besides the point.
I am figuring out which parts of my personality are mine
and which ones I created to please you.
I am still holding onto some of the letters you wrote me.
I tell myself it’s to remember.
I tell myself it’s because I am afraid of forgetting
the early warning signs.
I tell myself I’m not sentimental.
I’m not sentimental.
I’m just afraid of throwing every burning thought
I have about you into the trash
and starting a wildfire.
Thinking about you takes effort now.
You no longer pour out when I open my mouth.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife.
This is a form of self-abuse.
This is a form of reliving my youth.
This is a way to remember what it felt like to be near you.
Reblogged from lora-mathis
The Dust On This Poem Could Choke You| Lora Mathis
Who cares? I don’t care. (via lora-mathis)
Reblogged from linguisticsyall
(noun) This wonderful, untranslatable German word describes the feeling of homesickness for a far away land, a place you have never visited. Do not confuse this with the english word, wanderlust; Fernweh is much more profound, it is the feeling of an unsatisfied urge to escape and discover new places, almost a sort of sadness. You miss a place you have never experienced, as opposed to lusting over it or desiring it like wanderlust. You are seeking freedom and self-discovery, but not a particular home. (via mirroir)
Reblogged from m--ysterious