It is worth every fire extinguisher mouth that told you
that you were not enough. It’s worth all the people that
tried to put your loves honest flame out.
That confused your birthday candle kiss. Firecracker mouth.
For some blazing forest. torched chapel.
Let ‘em run out of you like a house up in flames.
They won’t be the first. They won’t be the last.
Pull the fire alarm. Let it rain. Desireé Dallagiacomo (via aforceofcircumstance)
my parents definitely did not raise me to be an queer feminist filled with the wrath of a thousand enraged dragons and yet here i am
This is a poem about
how you never get the kiss you want
when you want it;
how time twines around your neck, its thorns
digging into your skin so you can never forget
how clinging to a string of hope, threading it
between your spine, and having it unravel before you
in the span of an hour
is worse than any metaphor about nakedness
that you poets will ever write.
This is my reflection in the mirror. This stanza
is the small gap where my fingers try to touch against
You can’t even possess yourself; let alone
the person you see standing before you.
hasn’t come back from the cleaners yet
and I have nothing to slip into tonight that makes my reflection feel
Time is falling through the hole in my pocket. January
is coming soon, and I have a feeling that he’s never going to fall
out of love with this December.
He’ll still write her love letters. He’ll
send her white orchids on every lonely holiday and pretend
that love is a place you can cross state lines to get back to,
but it’s that time of the year again, and
calendar sales keep reminding us all that we can never get back
to where we once wanted so bad to lose ourselves in