If you close your eyes it’s almost Kansas again.
It’s almost black and white again, and you know the roads like you’ve been studying them forever.
Here’s the dust storm they forgot to warn you about.
Here’s the knot that will tangle itself into your stomach.
You’re hoping there’s another side to this,
and your hoping it has hands like your mother’s.
Large enough to carry the country in you
and warm enough so that it doesn’t freeze over.
You’ll eventually stop counting your mistakes
and you’ll save enough breath to say words like ‘please’ and ‘stay’ when you mean them.
But all that comes later.
There’s still right now.
And right now you are stillness learning hurricane.
learning motion without
the quiet or the careful.
You’re used to calculating your every move,
but now the math is wrong,
and the numbers don’t make sense.
Houses crumble too fast to rebuild.
People leave more often than they come back.
You’re getting so tired of being a foreigner
in a place you’ve lived your whole life.
It turns out that sometimes
being the hero
means destroying the villains inside of you
instead of the ones around you.
― Y.Z, the tourist in you (via rustyvoices)

You Haunt Me // Sir Sly 

My mother doesn’t like tattoos. She says art belongs on a wall. Well I say no one, not even my mother gets to tell me I can’t be a masterpiece.
― Hannah Snowdon (via fraggybird)

fraggybird:

Left Hand Free // alt-J

But when I’m sitting in the in-between, when I am walking through the valley — please let me sing the sad song for as long as I need to. And if you can, sing it with me. Then, together, we can turn the corner as the psalmists do. We can pour out the pain and make room for the praise, we can sit in the ashes and reach for the roses, we can discover again that we are safe in the presence of God.
Diana Trautwein (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
I loved you so much once. I did. More than anything in the whole wide world. Imagine that. What a laugh that is now. Can you believe it? We were so intimate once upon a time I can’t believe it now. The memory of being that intimate with somebody. We were so intimate I could puke. I can’t imagine ever being that intimate with somebody else. I haven’t been.
― Raymond Carver, Where I’m Calling From: New and Selected Stories (via wordsnquotes)
These words aren’t about you.
They’re about the person I let rent space
inside my heart.
They’re about the times I wished I could go back
and say to them, “No it’s okay, you can stay longer
I don’t care if your payment is late.”
Because having you there was enough.
But these words aren’t about you.
They’re for the person still hiding behind these drained eyes.
These shaking fingers.
These weak limbs.
And I’m still not sure which is better;
to feel everything at once or nothing at all.
Because sometimes it is both,
and you are the gushing waters drowning my lungs.
And sometimes it is neither,
and you are the words I wish I could take back.
We always left so many of them unsaid,
letting our bodies do the talking.
But now I wonder how many conversations
we’ve had with each other when we
thought we were asleep.
― these words aren’t about you (via christopherevan)
I’ve stopped being sorry for all my soft. I won’t apologize because I miss you, or because I said it, or because I text you first, or again. I think everyone spends too much time trying to close themselves off. I don’t want to be cool or indifferent, I want to be honest.
― Azra T. (via seabois)