Tag: poetry

run (rən [verb])

5. feel your hear rate climb (feel it plateau)
4. feel energy crawling under your skin (feel it settle)
3. feel your muscles pull you in a direction none can follow (feel eyes on your back anyway)
2. never feel both feet on the ground at the same time (feel the new path carved into your bones)
1. never look back (except for him)

define: Neil Josten//c.b. (via frxnkenstein)

kevndreil:

“reasons to not kiss him:

1. you weren’t raised to love tender.

2. when he’s around all you do is tremble. when he’s around you want to get on your knees. look how much power he has over you. it’s dangerous.

3. he’s too good at forgiving and you’re too good at violence.

4. you know what they say about monsters. you know what happens to the boys who love them. are you going to do that to him?

5. your hands don’t know how to be gentle. think about the last beautiful thing that shattered in your palms. the fresh rosebuds crumbling between your fingers like a bruise. you wolf-boy, you war machine. you wouldn’t know how to hold something magic and not destroy it.

6. if you hurt him it might kill you

7. if you hurt him you might kill yourself.

8. you are very bad at rehabilitation. this is one addiction you’d fail to give up. he’s going to ruin you for all other kisses and all other boys and you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to forget his name.

9. you still aren’t sure he isn’t a dream.

10. if you kiss him, you might wake up.

reasons to kiss him:

1. because he’s beautiful.

2. because he asked.

3. because he preceded please with, i’m not afraid of you.”

—

yes & no // natalie wee

you’re not a liar, not to him.
there are words that go unsaid,
things you edge around, half-truths.
you might avoid or omit pieces of honesty,
but you’d never outright lie to him.

so you tell him.  you tell him you’ve thought of
pulling him apart, breaking him,
ruining him.
you’ve thought about what it might be
to put him six feet under.
you tell him how you’ve thought of how much you want him dead,
because it’s true, because you have.
because at least if you kill him,
he can’t look at you like he wouldn’t mind.

10% of the time, you let the truth scare you // es
(via reynclds07)

i. I might have switchblade fingers and a barb-wired mouth,
but don’t think for one second
that you’re so far removed from the likes of me.
Come off that tall pedestal where you sit,
all high and mighty and deserving.
Come join me in the gutter— join me where we really belong.
We’re Minyards, remember?
And Minyards don’t get higher than rock bottom.
What? Does it hurt to hear me say it?
Look me in the eyes, brother, I’ll say it again:
We’re Minyards.
And Minyards don’t get higher than rock bottom.
An entire childhood apart doesn’t mean anything,
can’t defer DNA or change who we are.
We share so many things already— Just look at our faces.
Study the sharp angles we share,
the laugh we mirror,
the nightmares we divvy up.
We’re not so different, you and I.
Me, with my barb-wired mouth.
You, with your salt-rimmed lips.
My gasoline voice is perfect
for your wildfire words.
We’re the perfect match
for a world on fire.
Now climb down from your high horse, brother.
You’re not as great as you pretend to be.
You’re a Minyard.
And Minyards aren’t good for anything
other than showing the rest of the world
what a bad influence looks like.
ii. ( But while we were busy lighting the world on fire,
we didn’t notice that we were burning in our own wake.
You can feel it, too, can’t you?
Tell me you can feel it, too. )

iii. I won’t try to make you understand.
I know when I’m preaching to the choir,
and this is not a conversation I will ever be willing to have with you.
You can’t change how people are.
But, I will say this:
I see the way you look at her when you think people aren’t looking.
( I see it, because I’ve been there, too. )
There’s a softness in your eyes that wasn’t there before;
a warmth in your laughter
that I’m sure not even you have heard in years.
I think you’ve been lost for a while now,
and you might have stumbled upon someone
that you can comfortably call Home.
She’s something holy to you, this seraphic being,
but even you’re confused,
because you didn’t consider yourself religious before she came along.
She’s everything light and pure and good and—
You’re scared. You’re so scared.
When you’re scared, you touch the ring resting on your finger.
You might not notice it, but I do.
That ring means safety for you. She means safety for you. 
She’s a promise for better, happier days.
It’s like she’s a candle,
And you’re afraid of the dark.
And oh, how terrified of the night you are.
( I know. I know, because I’ve been there, too. )
I won’t try to make you understand.
But I know how that feels.
I know how you feel, Aaron.
And he does, too.
I won’t get in the way of your happiness.
Do me a favor and don’t get in the way of mine.

iv. You’re not afraid of telling people how you feel.
( Except, that’s not true at all, is it? )
No, you’re terrified of letting people in.
You’re a boy with a wolf trapped in your chest,
and it’s growling and snapping at your ribcage,
spilling blood and moving organs around.
( I know. )
( I know, because I’ve been there, too. )
I can see it sometimes.
It shows in your eyes on Wednesday afternoons.
Flashes over your face before you reach for pills or dust or booze.
Always drowning it out,
always looking for a distraction,
a coupe de grâce,
a deliverance from evil.
You’ve got this wild thing inside you.
But instead of asking for help, you just say,
“I’m tired. Just tired. Just tired.”
Nod and smile.
Sell the lie.
“Just tired. Just tired.”
You’re being mauled from the inside out.
You’re being torn to pieces and you don’t even care.
I think it’s time to start acting like you do.

v. ( I’m sorry, too. 
More than I can express with words.
We deserved better.
We deserved so much better. )

Five Things Andrew Wants To Tell Aaron (But Never Will), Cont. from x, (via deadravenkings)

you decide he’s a problem the instant he comes bolting in,
like there’s hell on his heels, like someone’s taken aim and fired
at a target on his back.  men like that have secrets.
men like that are nothing but trouble.

you decide you hate him the second he bursts through the door
with murder in his eyes, like he’s ready to burn the world,
ashes to ashes, dust to one.  men like that – men who would fight
the breeze in hell to save you – are detestable.

you decide you want him dead the moment he returns.
there’s a limp in his steps and half a world of lies in his eyes.
he’s bruised and aching, can barely move right, and men like that
have no right to live.  men who go to lengths like that for you—
no. absolutely not.

you decide he scares you as soon as he’s gone.  missing.  (dead?)
he’s lost all sense of risk.  all consequences, all promises, all keys, trust, honesty, kisses be damned.
for them.  for you.
and men who you’ve let yourself trust?  men who you’ve let yourself lean on?
men who are so willing to play martyr?

they’re terrifying.

he’s supposed to be a pipe dream, not your answer // es
(via reynclds07)

deadravenkings:

“If it means losing you, then no.”

“violent delights have violent ends.”
you laughed the first time you heard this.
you are well acquainted with violent ends,
violent beginnings, violent middles—
they don’t call you “monster” for no reason—
but damn if there isn’t anything more foreign to you than a “violent delight.”
you’ve always been one step ahead of everybody, though.
so you think of it as skipping step one,
getting a head start,
and saving yourself the inevitable heartache.
(what you don’t know is that this isn’t a race that you can win)


“violent delights have violent ends”
to have a violent end, you must first have a violent start.
but you know better than anybody else
the anatomy of a violent start:
you kick off your day with cold sweats in bed
and flashbacks of hands, hands, hands—
You swallow your pills
and chase them down with anxiety techniques,
scrub out that awful taste in your mouth
and stow your sorrow in the bags under your eyes.
the sun isn’t even up yet
and you’re already itching to put your fist through a wall.
you look at your brother sleeping in the bed across the room
and wonder if your first act of violence
had been shoving him aside so you could enter the world first.
you think you’re starting to become too good at violent starts.


“violent delights have violent ends”
you think about violent middles for a second,
but oh, wait, here comes somebody new:
another violent start.
and you decide that this time your “hello”
is a racquet to the stomach—
is him doubling over, world crackling black,
barely holding himself together.
“nice to meet you” comes out as “fuck you” and
“my name’s andrew” is a promise for
collateral damage and complications.
“i’d like to get to know you better” sounds a lot like
“oh, oh you might actually turn out to be interesting.”
but you tell yourself that this is nothing—
just another harrowing feeling that you’ll burry
because you’re acutely aware that nothing will ever come from it.
(nothing ever does)


“violent delights have violent ends”
and you had convinced yourself that you wouldn’t ever get a violent delight—
had told yourself that those were reserved for people who had souls—
but, baby, you’ve been a liar for as long as you can remember.
you’re pathological, obsessive, habitual.
this is a violent delight, this isn’t a violent delight.
you want a violent delight, you can’t ever have a violent delight.
even now you can’t tell which is the biggest lie.
if you’re being honest about one thing, let it be this:
you are absolutely terrified of this boy.
you are horrified of what he’s doing to you.
you want to go back.
you want this feeling to stop.


“violent delights have violent ends”
he is everything you’ve told yourself you could never have,
he is milk and honey and he is hope,
he is hands that don’t make you want to recoil.
he is keys and stay, stay, stay.
he is teeth on lips and skin against skin.
you can feel yourself blooming from the inside out every time you touch.
he says he wants to be inside you,
and you hand him the knife and tell him to start carving.
(but darling, i have to warn you:
he might taste like honey—
sweet and delicious and nice sliding down your throat,
but too much will make you absolutely sick.
be careful.
don’t get greedy.
don’t get hooked on something as dangerous as that.)


“violent delights have violent ends”
you feel warm.
no, you feel hot.
too hot.
you’re burning.
you’re exploding.
you’re ruining yourself repeatedly over this boy.
you’re thinking that this isn’t the story that you wanted—
you want something better,
you want to not be afraid of this,
you want to not want this.
“help me” sounds an awful lot like “i hate you”


“violent delights have violent ends”
he’s at 100% and you’re tired.
(but 9% of the time you think that killing him is the one thing
that you won’t be able to come back from— he’s the one thing it might hurt to lose.
8% of the time he feels like falling,
but for somebody who’s terrified of heights, that’s a terrible and frightening sensation.)
you’re at 100% and you’re scared,
because you finally realized that there’s no going back from this.
you got your violent delights— you got him , and you got love, and you loved in return.
too fast, too much, too soon.
you don’t know what the word “moderation” means when it comes to him.
you will burn up in victory.
but you’re starting to think that you won’t mind—
you have him. he has you. everything else is background noise.
love-destroying death can do whatever it pleases.
suddenly, a violent end doesn’t seem so bad when it comes to him.

“I hate you.”