To Be Loved Is To Be Eaten, Ripped To The Bone, Skin Tender And Pink. A Blush So Bloody, My Sweet Killer,

isnt he so hot people say and im like who and people say this guy and im like who and people keep saying oh this guy he kinda looks a little weird but hes so attractive and im like who well he played this character from this movie and hes so attractive and im like okay can i see a picture and the guy always looks like this

summer in the city drenches everything in this unbearable sticky heat,

I am here in bed,

thinking about my blue eyed boy:

the sunlight washing over anything,

a daydream in reality,

all this harshness dipped in gold.

isn’t life just misery. and mortality. and suffering.

isn’t this mangled body so tired of dragging itself forward,

waiting for the next trauma to almost-cripple it.

but like the sunlight my blue eyed boy pours his warmth over everything,

my own pocket of the galaxy,

and his sun rays touch me like nothing else has ever touched me before.

summer sticks to him,

summer sticks to me.

and all this sweaty passion is

so strong I feel it from the other side of the universe.

classycreeps

Kim Addonizio, from ‘Blues for Roberto’, What Is This Thing Called Love: Poems

gooooob morning. today is your day. and if it is not. well who really cares. i still love you lots

hey lovely i hope you’re doing okay!!!! i see you and your words and i want you to know you’re worth the world

hi, that means the absolute world to me angel. I’m struggling with my physical and mental health right now and it’s making me feel useless because I can’t function. hopefully it passes soon though, it always does :)

thank you for checking in honey

“Don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me. My words in the dream are like Hamlet’s ghost, the prophecy spurts old blood, one hundred Ophelias of thought have died. Don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me.”

— Moikom Zeqo, from ‘Don’t Talk to Me’, I Don’t Believe in Ghosts: Poems from ‘Meduza’ (trans. Wayne Miller)

you move & the wind moves with you, something honey, something bruised— in the way you chew on your bottom lip. nervous habit; delayed reaction. how in summer the world feels like a mirage of itself. hands that chain themselves to anything that refuses to let go: a leech, or brown muck. your teeth (grazing) the inside of my elbow. something damn frustrating about the way you give yourself up (to anything that’s foolish enough to take you) i.e the sea, the coast, where your shoulders meet, the leylines of your veins. & picture me humbly, please. picture me in evenings & earthly tones, only. & do not hold your breath when i go, slip. out the back door—silhouetted feline; precipitous, or better yet. picture (you), standing barefoot in the tall grass, picture the curve of your neck in malnourished light, & a puncture wound, in the now negative (space) you found me in: a flower bed emptied; the sun bleached out. — oh all i ever wanted / was a life in your shape // mitski

Forough Farrokhzad, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of F. F.; “In The Dark,”