Even on the good days,
he is a mountain I can’t climb.
A bridge I can’t get over.
His spine means sacrifice.
Means look at all the ways
I stretched myself out for you.
Look at all the ways it wasn’t enough.
It’s my fault for showing him
the wolves in my belly.
The moons I swallowed
until my stomach howled
from the weight of it all.
He carried carnivals
in his hands and kissed me
like he was on top of
a Ferris wheel every time.
Like he saw the world from
where he was standing.
He still loves me,
I understand,
but he is someone else’s
best poem now.

To that person I’d like to say:
I’m sorry for the stars I painted on
the inside of his eyelids.
I wanted him to see
galaxies growing through my skin.
even when he was asleep.
I miss him terribly,
and I loved him terribly, I know,
but I hope you bring the
prince in him back to life.
I’m sorry about the dragons
I left behind.
Y.Z, my mountain boy, I hope you’re well (via rustyvoices)

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Stop rummaging through my body
in search of her. I’m not yours to
sort through in order to heal the
wounds another inflicted
upon your skin. I can barely stitch
together my own cuts and scrapes
from loving people who don’t
deserve it too hard.
a 365 poetry project entry (and a message to you) // Haley Hendrick (via s-k-e-t-c-h-e-d)

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I thought: please don’t grow
familiar. I think I said it out loud:
Please don’t let me love you
that horrible way.
Olena Kalytiak Davis, And Her Soul Out Of Nothing (via avvfvl)

(Source: splitterherzen, via considerablyordinary)

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