"When I think of love,

I think of the door 
to your bedroom

with its chipped white paint 

and your dark blue sheets

that sat bunched up 
in a pile
at the foot of your bed.

I think of your window panes

overlooking the quiet city

and the way the moonlight

touched your pale skin

just as softly as I did
and of the cold floors
 beneath our feet

as we ran across the kitchen floor.
We walked to 7/11 
and bought energy drinks

that we drank on our walk home 
in between cigarettes

and kisses that didn’t last 
long enough.
I think of the way we sat there

just looking at each other

and not saying anything

because for the first time
we didn’t need to, 

and when I think of love

I have to gently remind myself

that you were never mine, 
but hers

and that she felt the warmth of your skin

long before I did

and that it’s been 
a year and a half

and she still is."
When I Think Of Love… // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

132 notes

"Tell me about the boy
that keeps you awake at night.
Tell me about his eyes like
pools of cement,
and the way he swings
his fists too much
with hands like cigarette ashes.
Tell me about the way he talks,
constellations spelling out
every word
and tell me about the way he loves you
with a scarred heart
and three am phone calls
over the Atlantic."
Tell Me About the Boy That Keeps You Awake //
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

203 notes

"It’s midnight.
There is a silhouette of you on my wall,
the outline of my lips on your jaw.
This is not a movie.
There is no flickering of a projector,
no audience of seven sitting four rows back from a screen wider than their eyes.
You’re seventeen again,
with a heart like a fireplace
and hands that feel like home.
They ask how I know it’s love,
why I’m so sure it’s not a summer
spent beneath warm stars
and beneath the window fan
in your childhood bedroom.
You kiss me on your mother’s couch
and I don’t feel lonely when
I crawl in my own bed at night.
It has to be."
How I Know It’s Love //
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

50 notes

"He tastes like cement,
and when he kisses me,
he leaves my heart heavy
and my insides turn grey.
He tears me open,
stitches me together
with strings as fragile
as I have become.
He says “This is sacrifice.”
I say, “This is not what love is.”"
This is Not Love //
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

58 notes


I. Here it is: painting self-portraits in black and blue and swallowing razor blades so when I choke, something other than your name comes out. 

II. Here it is: falling asleep in beds that aren’t mine and leaving hotel rooms before sunrise. 

III. Here it is: nights spent swallowing seven shots and calling it pride, calling it a reason to dial your number and tell you I’m still in love with you.

IV. Here it is: calling you from a stranger’s front porch when it’s Sunday night and he’s calling me by the wrong name.

V. Here it is: staring at sidewalks and wondering how long it would take before I found myself on your doorstep.

Vl. Here it is: knowing that I can’t run into your arms again, knowing I can’t breathe you in.

VII. Here it is: being okay with that.

The Seven Stages of Moving On //
heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)

63 notes

"we were
and then we weren’t
sometimes people fall asleep in love
and wake up empty
sometimes people fall asleep
and don’t wake up at all
and it hurts
until it doesn’t
and you don’t always feel it at first
but when you feel it
oh god do you feel it
and sometimes we bleed ourselves
dry before we can feel okay again
and sometimes the scars don’t fade
like the doctor said they would
and i know sometimes I come home
with my knees torn apart and
lips that look like cherries
but taste like blood
and one day I’ll be spitting up your
name and I won’t be able to taste
anything but you
and you
and you
and I can’t stop my heart from beating so
fast that I collapse on the ground trying
to catch my breath
and I can’t fall asleep knowing that I
might wake up and not be yours
because tonight we are
but who knows if you’ll still love me when the
sun pierces through the blinds and hits you
in the face"
I hope you love me in the morning (via

3,891 notes

"I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can’t love and do nothing."Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (via bestreadamerican)

6,488 notes

"Most days I wish I never met you because then I could sleep at night and I wouldn’t have to walk around with the knowledge there was someone like you out there."Good Will Hunting (1997)

258,928 notes


You’re standing against a wall, holding onto a girl whose knees you’ve shot without touching. Holding, but not in the way you’ve ever known it. Hold like you’re drowning, hold like you’re buried, hold until your arms are trembling from the strength of it. She’s elastic against you, she’s all wilting and drooping and long long lashes hiding eyes painted black from wanting. She won’t look at you because she doesn’t know how to without spilling desire.

You’re both talking a language that neither of you can understand. But it sounds like ‘please’ or it sounds like ‘touch me everywhere.’ But this is more than your fingers or your mouth. This is the five seconds that it takes to peel her self-conscious away from her body. This is the five minutes of holding her hips between your hands and pressing your fingers into the stretch marks there and saying ‘you’re so fucking beautiful.’ This is really meaning it. This is thanking God for your hands and their ability to feel. You think maybe the dip of her sternum is forgiveness. This is how the soft of her against you makes your breath ragged. This is your chest heaving and sweat on your upper lip. The way you’ve forgotten the first name of every girl you’ve ever touched. The way her hair feels between your knuckles when you yank it. The noise she makes.

This is the hour that it takes for her to believe that you want her, skin and all. And when she believes you, you’ll know. Her defences will fall off her like water. She’ll shrug the sweater off her shoulders and that strip of bare skin will drive you so crazy that you’ll think about it for weeks later and it’ll make you hard again. You’ll text her saying that you’re thinking about her and your colleagues will ask why the freckles on your cheeks have connected to turn you bright red and you’ll mumble something about the sun. It’s not the sun. It’s the way she fell apart when you bit her neck and moaned honey into her throat. You’ll both be so brimming the ocean will rise jealous to see you. You’ll meet a girl and she’ll trust you and it will feel like undressing with all your clothes still on. It’ll feel like the raw of a wound and the relief of healing. She’ll put her throat in your open hands and close her eyes. This is what trust looks like.

Dip your fingers into her swollen mouth. Lean closer, breathe the words, you’ll fill her like this: ‘you are so beautiful and I’m going to put my hands everywhere.’

Azra.T   (via 5000letters)

6,427 notes

"You brave, brave thing.
One day, you’re going to
stop leaving the door open
for people who only know how
to keep leaving."
Yasmin Z, We’re All Still Learning (via

8,595 notes

"Sometimes you meet someone, and it’s so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you’re in love or you’re partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don’t know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something."Brandon Oda (via 5000letters)

11,796 notes

"There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me."Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via 5000letters)

22,752 notes