Her heart has four chambers
because it contains four substances:
blood, ache, glitter, & tiny knives
Now that museums are churches that
don’t tell you how to feel

Her father said that she is like a library.
Everyone pulls things out quietly.
She wish she could just replace
all their organs with wine glasses.

Her swollen eyes watch you cross your legs,
your hands barely adjust between your thights.
She’s stutter and write to everyone
"…now tell me you don’t believe in God?"

Her sheets are the color of surrender.

You walk into the room. She look up.
You walk through another doorway.
You walk into the room. She look up.
This repeats for years.

It’s weird loving something she had never seen move.
It’s when she see skyscrapers and their windows
into your callousness, photos of you.

To her; looks like rain.
Feels like Christmas without you.

She overheard them talking about how
he want to fly to her but
he also want the plane to crash
to make it seem like she was worth it.
She weeps. She weeps. She wish she was her.

She running out of things to say to you
so she’s learning a new language.

You open her mouth. Wider. Wider.
You put your fingers in. Pull. Pull.
Her cheeks split. Blood gushes.
You still can’t understand what she said.

She rests her palm on the back of your hand.
It’s a concerned touch. Her fingers draw over yours.
She presses. F major. Your palms. E minor.

Suddenly, you thought she heard the birds talking.
Something about anchorage, your dreadful jove,
and how her legs turn to waves.

You may twist your mind round and round
looking at her and thinking about
Is there anything you can do with a two year old
who only enjoys stacking cans and pouring water?

Oh god, you forgot about making a waterfall.

— Sarah Saniyyah

They say there are five stages of grief.
The first is when I wait for you to come home
even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month,
and I save portions for your dinner.

The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used.
I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on.
I scream at the walls for not warning me.

The third is when I call and say, can we be friends?
I cooked your favourite,
will you come over for a last supper?

The fourth is when you say no,
and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour.
It’s when I lay in bed and cry over
the clothes you left behind.

The fifth is when I pack up all your things
and mail them to her address. I paint the walls.
I scrub the floors.

We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.

I light you up like a pyre.
Now she’ll spit me out like a grave.

there will be no eulogy for the damned.

This is the sound Jupiter emits via electromagnetic waves. 10 min

(Source: helaeon, via depers0nalization)


You were red. You liked me because I was blue. You touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky and you decided purple just wasn’t for you.