"there’s a corner of your heart for me"
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don’t keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll’s tiny shoes in pairs, don’t worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic — decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don’t even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don’t sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we’re all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don’t answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don’t read it, don’t read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
"I love you but I’m married.
I love you but I wish you had more hair.
I love you more.
I love you more like a friend.
I love your friends more than you.
I love how when we go into a mall and classical muzak is playing,
you can always name the composer.
I love you, but one or both of us is/are fictional.
I love you but "I" am an unstable signifier.
I love you saying, "I understand the semiotics of that" when I said, "I
had a little personal business to take care of.”
I love you as long as you love me back.
I love you in spite of the restraining order.
I love you from the coma you put me in.
I love you when you’re not getting drunk and stupid.
I love how you get me.
I love your pain, it’s so competitive.
I love how emotionally unavailable you are.
I love you like I’m a strange backyard and you’re running from the
cops, looking for a place to stash your gun.
I love your hair.
I love you but I’m just not that into you.
I love you secretly.
I love how you make me feel like I’m a monastery in the desert.
I love how you defined grace as the little turn the blood in the
syringe takes when you’re shooting heroin, after you pull back
the plunger slightly to make sure you hit the vein.
I love your mother, she’s the opposite of mine.
I love you and feel a powerful spiritual connection to you, even
though we’ve never met.
I love your tacos! I love your stick deodorant!
I love it when you tie me up with ropes using the knots you
learned in Boy Scouts, and when you do the stoned Dennis
Hopper rap from Apocalypse Now!
I love your extravagant double takes!
I love your mother, even though I’m nearly her age!
I love everything about you except your hair.
If it weren’t for that I know I could really, really love you.” - Kim Addonizio, from Lucifer At The Starlite: Forms Of Love
i re-blogged this because there are pieces of the things i love about you in this poem… i hope you can point them out
do not tell her you love her if you are not ready for her to call you at 3 AM freaking out.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot handle her father or mother.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot love her at her worse.
do not tell her you love her if you only crave for her curves, not her mind.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot deal with her mood swings.
do not tell her you love her just to have sex.
I will receive your kisses like the gifts they are,
the unwrapping of presents on a Christmas morning,
the peeling off of old skin from new lovers learning to love again,
the frankness of strangers,
the prayers before meals,
the saccharine sound of get-well-cards,
a bouquet of white lilies.
I will wrap them around my waist like pink ribbons adorning birthday gift boxes.
*to the girl I met in my dreams*
A.K this is a simple question i’ve probably asked you once and i will ask it until you tell me the truth
to my current love interest
Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.
Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre (via childoflust)
You’ll probably not..
Don’t touch me
Don’t serenade me with that angelic voice
Don’t draw perfected portraits of me
Don’t take idealistic pictures of me
Don’t choreograph emotional dance pieces for me
Don’t spray urban visuals of my name on that wall
Don’t inscribe words of my soul with that pen
Don’t carve figures of my shadow from that stone
Don’t tattoo me inspired art on that skin
Don’t mould that clay to be shaped like me
Don’t sample that beat to my rhythm
I am not your muse, now leave my soul alone I also need inspiration