Poetry Quotes

in a language that doesn’t have the word ‘love’ I say “I still have the receipt from the film we watched on our first date” I say “I bought four red sweaters after you told me it was your favorite color” I say “it’s been exactly two hundred and twelve days since our last kiss” I say “last week, in a hotel room, the complementary pantene shampoo was the type that you use” I say “I walked around smelling like you and nobody else cried over it” I say “yes, I’m still crying over it” I say “the other day somebody’s ringtone went off in class and it was the same noise you set for your alarm and it took me a minute to figure out where I knew it from” I say “I’m terrified of someday not knowing where I knew it from”...


i see poetry in your eyes,
you're the only reason we rhyme
When breathing in life and breathing out poetry, remember that 80% of halitosis comes from the tongue.
Sometimes I wanna stitch my lips together to excuse myself from spoken debates since words slip off my finger tips so much more easily than they do my tongue and in an argument my upper hand is always swallowed by a faster mouth
Dear night: It was so warm
under you that I offered
but you refused
to endure. You won’t remember
me. (We danced. I was the one
in the dark. I was wearing
this face.) In daylight, I’m an acre of empty
desert, anyway. A spent white flower. A pale
honey scent wilted away.
And I’m having this dream:
I am mourned by millions.
I died young and I was so, so pretty.

       And tears are / water, blood is / water, / a woman always washes in 
BLooD & Tears.

with no spaces in between, no room for any
Call me crazy. Call the universe cruel.
Call my mother on the phone, with
an apology she’ll never believe. Call
me soulmate, I never believed in them
anyway. Call to ask how I’m doing.
Call for all of your kitchen dances
and hazey car kisses back. Call
my name in your sleep, call it when
you unravel.

You ask my why all of my writing sounds
sad, but you don't understand the way it
manifests. The way my words are strung
fairy lights, in an empty house at
midnight, trying to make all of the dark
edges beautiful again.
We are soft, malleable things behind our
brittle masks. We dance to the music of
of our dying days, and the champagne tastes
a little bit like sadness, but maybe if we
drink enough of it we will drown. I'm sick
of wanting things I can't have. I'm sick
of feeling sick, with my life, with myself.
I'm sick of gritting my teeth for people
who would sooner punch through them.
I'm sick of smiling for a world that doesn't
want to look me in the eyes.

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