I hope I crawl through your brain like a fungus
And i poison EVERYTHING.
I want my arms to reach every deep dark crevice of your mind
Squeezing toxins into your synapses and soaking up every ounce of serotonin sitting in your cerebellum
I hope I travel from cervical to sacral
And you feel me EVERYWHERE
in your fists
In your throat
In the tension of your muscles
I.
Hope.
You.
Feel.
Me.
As the heat
And the knots
And the rigidity in your jaw
I hope I break teeth
And burn the skin of every lover you caress
And that the boiling blood pumping through your chest reminds you of me
-the last of us
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the easiest way home
is to drive
three hundred fifty-two kilometres over land,
another ten over sea
but not even that journey
could bridge the distance
between you and me
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It's April 28th. It's your birthday. It's your birthday and my heart breaks a little more with each breath I take. I wonder what you would say if I called you up. Would you thank me? Or would you tell me never to call again? Hell, would you even pick up the phone? Would you ignore the intrusive ringing and clear it from your call log so your new girlfriend doesn't see it? I wonder what gifts you got, if the presents she bought you were as good as mine. I want to know if you're spending the night at your dad's house since it was your mum's turn last year. Does your new girl know that our birthdays are only four days apart? Does she know that your mum threw us a party? Did you tell her about all the balloons she blew up for us, all the gifts wrapped in silver paper and the flutes of champagne? I already know you're not going to call on my birthday, so I don't call you either. Instead, I miss you from miles away, wondering if she fits in as well as I did, wondering if all your birthday wishes came true while I wish for a call that I know will never come.
h.w
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Now that I am gone,
you are here.
Now that I am broken,
you have come to mend me.
Now that I am sad,
you have come to make me laugh.
Now that I am confused,
you have come with clarity.
Now that I am not yours anymore,
you have come to claim me?
Anita Castelynne, Now That I Am Not Yours Anymore (Dec 19, 2023)
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as children,
we’re told home
is four walls,
a roof,
rooms,
& a door.
no one tells you
it’s a heart
that aches
when you’re away,
or arms to hold you
when you’re afraid.
- your heartbeat is home -
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Ungrateful
-
I hope you sit in the silence
Of the emptiness you created
And you hurt.
I hope you realize that ripping me
To my very basic parts
And leaving me in the cold
Wasn't enough to heal what is broken
Inside you.
To think I approached your malice
With empathy
And your violence
With love-
Makes me sick.
You fought for isolation,
And when it haunts you,
When I haunt you-
Don't you dare even think
To reach for me again.
x
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ok and THE THING ABOUT THE BREAKUP POEM like… I know Fitz read it over and over and over and he would absolutely wrote hundreds of reply poems to the fire
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Your name stings.
Like a child
I hopscotch around
To avoid the sound
But I trip
Or misstep
And the swarm rages out
Im attacked by
Every smile
Every kiss
Every tear
Our memories like venom
Course through my veins
And for a moment
I remember
What it feels like to die
-yellow jacket love
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The Survivor
The story of us begin a spring so bright,
We danced through the days, embracing every night,
Together we planted flowers for our love,
Each one bloomed with promises from the stars above.
But as the petals fell and stars lost their gleam,
Stitches binding our love story tore at the seam.
In your silent indifference laughter faded,
The flowers wilted with the secrets you shaded,
The melodies I wrote you were left unsung,
As I struggled to mend the chains come undone.
Your verbal arrows easily found their mark,
Piercing tender skin, sinking into my heart.
Through the storm of your resentment, my love was worn,
And our scattered love petals lay trampled and torn.
In the aftermath of your tempest, I stand,
A survivor of you, lost in a wasteland.
With hope as my needle, and self-love as thread,
I will stitch the broken heart you left for dead.
— Amey J. F.
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