"Queerness is not here yet. Queerness is an identity. Put another way, we are not yet queer. We may never touch queerness, but we can feel it as the warm illumination of a horizon imbued with potentiality. We have never been queer, yet queerness exists for us as an identity that can be distilled from the past and used to imagine a future. The future is queerness’s domain."
– Jose Esteban Muñoz
"What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it."

Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera, who passed away April 17, 2014

"And there was Momma flicking the caps off
beer bottles faster than you could blink.
She would make you a necklace out of the
pieces of herself that she forgot late at night
when her mouth was filled with burning trees.
She used to laugh like dry wind and say that
she would go to her grave smilin’ if the only
thing she ever taught you was how to swallow
shipwrecks whole without letting the heat,
the summer breeze in turn, swallow you."
Shelby Asquith, Mama Was Right (via exahele)

Setting Fire

whiletheskywasfalling:

blood red leaves in autumn.
the colour of fire.
windmills softly spinning.
the sun slowly
creeping away..
a squeaky red swingset
casting long shadows.
the smell of candles burning.
long goodbyes at night.
fruit falling from an apple tree -
half ripe half rotten.
bicycles with no handles
locked up and forgotten.
brush strokes to a
crimson symphony.
wind chimes and
smoke alarms.
calendars on fire
in the kitchen.
putting out flames
with tears.
setting fire to
an entire year.

- © 2014 C.Brooks | @ClyntonBrooks

"

the last time i hung up on you it was february,
a year ago. i was tired and you were angry, and
now i guess i’m calling to ask how you’ve been since.
scratch that, that’s a lie, i’m calling to tell you
i think i might be sorry that it ended like it did,
except that doesn’t really sound like an apology.
okay, here’s the thing, i’m actually calling because
i think i’m falling for a girl i don’t even know
and you used to be good at my love life,
and i hoped you could tell me if this is even me
because you used to seem to know me too.

if you don’t already know, i’m sort of drunk,
and i’ve been writing down all the things i think
that i feel sorry for, and i wanted to tell you
until i realized i don’t have your number anymore.
okay, no, actually, i still know it by heart
but i wanted to ask you how long
it took you to delete mine from your phone,
and for how long you remembered it after that.
i didn’t think you would. you were always good
at forgetting the things you didn’t want to see.

i’m not calling because i miss you.
i’m not calling because i want you back,
and i know i don’t love you anymore.
i chose to walk away, but that doesn’t mean
it was ever easy. it doesn’t mean it was the way
i wanted it to be. i wish that it did.
i wish that it had been simple,
ordinary like water flowing from a tap,
a silver balloon floating into a blue sky.

i just want to tell you i cared.
i just want to tell you i had to stop loving you
because the voice in my head started sounding
like you. i had to stop loving you because it wasn’t
good, and we didn’t work anymore, and i was too tired
to fix anyone but myself.

i want to tell you i’m sorry that you couldn’t see that.
i’m sorry that i had to be the one to show you.
add this to the list of things for which i should apologize.
i really shouldn’t have called you.

"
regret-shaped voicemailrabia kazmi (via nightcapades)
"i write poetry because my heart bleeds ink and
my hands shake fire, i’ve never written a poem
about hurricanes or thunder, only your soul and
how you called me wallflower, at first i thought
the records that you played were meant to be
heard through the tempo of your soul, but only
when you left did i realize that pain tastes like
strawberry milk at 5 AM when you’re sitting on
sidewalk in black underwear and cigarette burns
on your tongue like bee stings, and when i visit
you in Hell, I hope you tell Satan I’ve come to be
your bride, so i can write another poem about
the way you chewed the words “God is a prison”"
– my sister eats acid  (via irynka)
"I can’t seem to touch
the ocean floor of my writings
these days, and the shore
seems so far away.
I used to wake up with the
symphony of the waves
but now—only serene skies
hovering my head is all i can see,
which my seas cannot digest
to sustain the cravings
of my stomach.
Once, twice but shouldn’t
get more than thrice or else,
i’d entirely lose the appetite
to write."
– writing sickness | spilledraindrops (via spilledraindrops)

(via spilledraindrops)