" This is not your problem. You have your own body to deal with. The lamp by the bed is broken. You are feeling things he’s no longer in touch with. And everyone is speaking softly, so as not to wake one another. The wind knocks the heads of the flowers together. Steam rises from every cup at every table at once. Things happen all the time, things happen every minute that have nothing to do with us. "
Richard Siken, “A Primer for the Small Weird Loves” (via rhymine)
" I am accused. I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love. "
Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices (via abattoirette)