THEME

Anonymous asked:

hey! what is your new blog?

answered:

Come off anon. I am deleting this because I do not want everybody to have my url.

Anonymous asked:

Hi, I feel really bad now that you really didn't want to post your url, I've got the link now and really appreciate it so thank you! So please, delete the post where you replied to me if that would be better for you. Sorry again, from the person that asked for your url.

answered:

Don’t be sorry at all! It’s totally not your fault. I’m flattered that you care about what I post enough to reach out. It’s really sweet.  

~   George Orwell, 1984 (via everydaygay)
lposer:

fall leaves

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

This is the first Summer where I have been genuinely happy for days in a row.
I have been giddy like a child for the past four days.
I wonder if this will be able to last.

Two Summers ago a lump grew in my throat 
and began to strangle me until I hardly spoke.
I simply sat on the edge of the dock and
watched as the grass I had pulled out of the cracks floated away.

When I think of being seventeen,
it all seems like an excited blur
with too many emotions and strange mix tapes floating through my hands
as I jumped from car to car and was asked to “hey, put that one on.”

And eighteen, a hot sunburn on my cheeks,
drinking gin in the back seat at two in afternoon.
Then stumbling into the grocery store to pick up frozen pizzas
and flashing a hot, alcohol soaked smile at strangers.
I fell asleep alongside friends crying,
wondering what on Earth we were going to do with our lives.

Now, eighteen, going on nineteen
and all I feel in my bones is an intense curiousity.
I want to make crowns out of all of the flowers
and know what the ground feels like beneath my toes at every hour of the day.
I feel so damn alive.
I wonder if this will be able to last.

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

My bedroom walls are covered with images of those that I love.
It does not seem like a room at all,
but a shrine to all of the people I one day want to be.

One day, I went for a walk with my camera in hand 
beneath the leafy green trees behind my house
and met a boy sitting alone on a bench,
staring down at a pond that nothing floated in
besides sunlight and dust.

I was surprised when a squeak left my throat 
and I heard “What are you doing?” be asked in my voice.
“I’m empty,” was all he said in reply,
never taking his eyes off the dust dancing in the light.

Without thinking, I grabbed his hand, 
and ran with our fingers interlocked to my bedroom.
There his wide eyes studied the faces in silence
until he finally turned to me and his face broke into a wide smile.
Then, his smile turning into a shy purse, he asked
“Can I be here?” 

Now on lonely nights, he climbs through my window
and nestles into my bed. 
Though he always tries to not wake me,
he always snuggles close enough that my eyes spring open.
Each time I see him looking back at me with an embarrassed look.
But before he can muster an apology, I take his hand and tell him the story
behind each photograph.
His favorite is the story of the boy who had dust behind his eyes
and needed a quiet little girl to clean them for him.
Like a looped record, I tell him this story repeatedly until the sun rises 
and we finally collapse on each others’ chests with a web of tales connecting us.

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

I’ll be alright with nothing  in my belly besides
the sinking sensation that we’ll all be dead someday.

You pushed a plate in front of me
and said “You need to eat, darling.”
But “darling” doesn’t hit me quite as hard
when there’s a meal in me.
Nor do alcohol, pretty words, and a lack of sleep
burn my insides as much as I’d please.

So fill me up with kisses and poetry,
and watch me press the skin between each rib
until I deflate.
Here’s to another night of going to bed hungry. 

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

I remember sitting with my back against my closed bedroom door, listening to the sounds of movers and my family pacing around the house. The rest of the furniture was quickly being emptied out as I stared at the small space I had lived in for only a year. The twin bed pushed against the wall that I spent hours kissing on, always jumping off when the sound of my mom’s footsteps came closer. The back door next to my room, that grunting movers were now shoving our couch through, where I ran down the back stairs with him, so we would not be caught alone and half naked. The desk I cried at after we broke up and the walls I had stared at on the countless nights I was unable to sleep.

It was raining that day and when my mother finally knocked on my door to tell me it was time for my things to be taken out, I stared at the suburban street outside and cursed each passing car. How were people able to continue their day to day routines when my life was falling apart? How could the rain fall as if it meant nothing? Splat, splat, have fun being alone. Drip, drip, you will leave everybody and everything you once thought of as home.

Now I am like an old man walking through a dead town, waving to his ghosts. They are everywhere. In the forest we ran through, on the swings where we had our first kiss, outside my neighbor’s house where you wiped tears from your eyes as I told you “I love you, but I’m not IN love with you”. I had to ask you lower your voice when you yelled “What does that mean?!” because the kids playing in the street were staring.  

When I came back the next year, you said “Well, you always end up coming back” laughing. But it wasn’t a friendly laugh, what you meant to say was “Why can’t you stay out of my life?” I’m sorry, for flitting back and forth in between lives like a moth who is unsure of whether it wants to fry, for breaking your heart, for leaving a ghost and then proclaiming myself alive. And if you take me down the old street, I hope I see my old room boarded shut. I want to know that the place burned to the ground with us.

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

I’ve been feeling dizzy lately. I look at my hands and can’t believe they’re my own. The shapes they make as I dance, the way they grab for things sometimes, and hoist me onto trees, they cannot belong to me. I pretend they are your arms, “a gift to you when he left, to always keep you company,” I whisper. But when I watch them wrapped around the shoulders of another man or tracing the now empty side of the bed where you used to lie, my eyes involuntarily stare at the shoulder they are locked into. These are not your arms, your rough, paint streaked arms, these are my own freckled limbs. And I remember that you never left me anything, you just left. 

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

Today, I heard my mother doing a load of laundry as I sat in the basement of my grandmother’s house . She dumped the stained clothes in and I flinched as they began to be beaten back and forth. “I feel the same way,” I almost whispered. My head feels like an aching washing machine on spin cycle: spinning round with thoughts and stresses like the violent mashing of fabric and soap. 

The world outside is grey. The streets, motionless, with no light reflecting off them: just colorless sky floating above, and the slouching pedestrians counting the cracks in the ground. The dim light tip toes through the window, and spotlights my head, which all the while is screaming in time with the falling rain. “Drip, drip, drip,” says the sky. And the “POUND, POUND, POUND”ing my head replies.

The washing machine screeches, the streets frown, and all the awhile my head pounds, on this horrible grey day.

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

You said, “I’m down in the dumps. I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do, for there’s nowhere I belong.” 

“I know,” I replied. “The dreamers always are. You keep staring at the ground, wondering why you don’t belong, when you should look up to where you really belong: in the stars.”  

coffee-and-secondhandsmoke:

I am looking for somebody to tell my secrets to.
Somebody with shoulders strong enough to hold all of them,
sculpted from years of carrying similar burdens.

Do you think that is you?
Let me get up close
and feel the tiny hairs that grow on your ear lobe and we shall find out.
I want to pour my voice into your ear drum,
until I am able to dance inside your beautiful brain.
I want to dive into your memory and search for sunken treasure:
the creaks of your childhood bed,
your first kiss,
and the color of your feet after you walked in the woods behind your house.

I want to tickle you from the inside 
and watch your cheeks deepen in color.
Let me fill all of your empty places with the promise of my love.
I promise I will kiss every time you were told you were not good enough.
I will love you more than everybody before, if you let me.