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Jessica

@r0geeer8398

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latenightcornerstore
I don’t write poems about him. He loved me. That isn’t always a good thing. The road to hell is paved with hard opinions, sleight-of-hand manipulation, and phone call, after phone call, after phone call, after phone call. It wasn’t right– being loved with a leash and a shock collar. But not every sand trap looks like one, and some people don’t know they’re bottomless pits, and he had the kind of hands Rome was built on, so I didn’t notice. Because they weren’t throwing hits. But he spun poison so thick you’d swear it was honey. I found a boy like a bad high; I lost days to that one. Whole years of my life I still define by the sound of his voice. So he loved me. And some days that word still looks like blackmail dressed up pretty. Never trust the boy who says he’ll kill himself when you leave him. There aren’t bruises for that kind of violence– no way to take pictures, to sayThis is what he did to me. There was a forest fire in his chest that I would never have the water to put out. So I held his hand and I burned with him. I thought that’s what lovers were supposed to do. Last year, I kissed a boy with the same name and it felt like returning to the scene of a crime: I was afraid to leave fingerprints. I was afraid that he would find me– jump from the throat of a boy whose hands were nothing like his and demand to know how I could ever be so heartless as to abandon him. He loved me. That isn’t always a good thing. I don’t write poems about him.

BRUISES by Ashe Vernon

This is a sneak peak of some of the never-before-seen content in my new book, Wrong Side of a Fistfight, which you can purchase here!

(via latenightcornerstore)

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coldfeetonthekitchenfloor
Where are you? You ask and I know what you mean but I say it anyway. Here. No you’re not. And when I don’t answer you brush your lips against my temple as if you knew the password in. You haven’t been here for a long time, is what I think you’re about to say. You meet my eyes. You’re far away, you say and the silent come back to me isn’t said, lingering desperately in the way you try to pull me back home.

~Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #83 (via coldfeetonthekitchenfloor)

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elocyn
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wnq-writers
If eyes are the windows to the soul, then hands are the doors. You can look through a window, whether pure and clean or dusty and abandoned or blinds barely open, and see what is on the other side and understand, watching your breath fog up the glass leaving prints and tracing designs, but never, never becoming a part of the other side No matter how much you try. Or want to. Doors, on the other hand, can be opened. Shadows playing in the pools of light flooding through the cracks, you decide you want this and gently turn the knob and there you are, surrounded by the colors and music of a person’s life and suddenly you are a part of it, loving and grieving and laughing right alongside that person and this was your choice, your choice of loving, to be someone in that room all because of a gentle touch where, in a brief, fleeting moment, you are theirs and they are yours Souls, gentle, making this decision to be here.

elocyn (via wnq-writers)

Source: wnq-writers.com
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latenightcornerstore
Dear bird-boned boy with the stars in his lungs: are they looking? Do they love you? Do they know how far you’ve come? Boy with the sky for a home who met the dirt like a strong left hook. Raging Icarus, too close to the sun— he lit the fires and burnt his own wings to the ground. Now, he wears his clipped feathers in a noose around his neck, because he knows what it is to be the center of attention at the hanging. He knows a grave when it doesn’t look like one, but who buries the hatchet and who buries the bodies? And who says they’re not the same thing, these days. What he doesn’t know is that a body can be so full of blood; doesn’t know that he can give so much and still have so much left to pay for. Open-veined repentance but no one wants to die alone. Boy dressed up like a man, hanging on to the wrong side of hopeful, plucking butterfly wings because how dare they, because once upon a time he had that kind of softness, too and he lost it. He started sleeping with a knife, when he started sleeping with a gun, when the bad dreams wore his face and crowed into his sleep to spit guilt that looked more like the dead. They didn’t warn him which habits he wouldn’t be able to quit, and if killing is an addiction, baby, this is it, this is it, this is it. So, bird-boned boy— bad-blooded Icarus boy— A riddle. What do you call the monsters who’ve made a living off your bones? By their names, sweetheart. Can you hear the howling? They’ve hitchhiked your hunger, your body— they’re walking the ghost of you home.

BAD-BOY ICARUS, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

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wnq-writers
You can’t lose something that wasn’t ever yours. But I still feel I lost so much anyway. The strange thing is, it’s not the big things I thought it’d be. It’s just tiny little details. I’m gonna miss seeing your name pop up on my phone. I’m gonna miss that hour-long drive. I’m gonna miss when you’d hold my hand and my heart would race, even if I didn’t want it to. I’m gonna miss you, collapsed on top of me, and feeling your warmth. I’m gonna miss how it feels to have your arms wrapped around me. I’m gonna miss random conversations that were sometimes dangerously close to drifting beyond the surface. I’m gonna miss your voice. I’m really gonna miss your smile. But there’s nothing to miss, I guess. And you told me I have a right to be upset but the truth is, I don’t. You never promised me anything. I’m missing something that wasn’t mine.

cmonfhgwgads (via wnq-writers)

Source: wnq-writers.com
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words and things

I’m honestly just dying to meet someone who I can connect and click with on all basis. I want to meet someone where we love the same bands and watch the same shows. Where we have the same goofy sense of humor but can also have serious conversations about our lives and the universe and everything else in between. Someone who’s down to do spontaneous and adventurous things but also have our lazy days. I want to fall in love with her interests and hobbies and hopefully she’ll bare with mine. I want to meet someone where we both push each other to achieve our goals in life and be right there for each other in success and failure. I just want to meet someone who gets me and who I can be myself with and where everything is just natural and easy and fun and happy and GOOD.