my poet and me

It’s always the little things.

It’s looking across the room,

and only seeing you.

It’s accidentally bumping our feet,

under every table.

It’s the awkward conversation,

we have everytime we meet.

But most of all,

it’s the hugs goodbye,

and how they never seem to end.

-It’s all the ways I know you like me too.


“Sometimes it gets hard to remember who I️ am to you when you’re so great with everyone. You just have this way about you, a sincerity lodged in your chest that pours over everyone you meet. There’s a special sweetness that comes out of every one of your smiles and every tease, no matter how innocent or unintentional. And I️ love that about you. I️ adore it, actually. It’s just hard to exist next to that essence of who you are. It’s hard to always feel like there’s a difference with me. It’s hard to feel like I’m special. But then there are those little nights of ours—never too late because you always need your sleep—when you say all of the right things. Not just to say them but because you mean them. And then I️ have to wonder how I️ could ever doubt you at all.”

“You really are.” 🖤

to the quiet ones
who are afraid
of the sound
of their voices:
and your words
will scream from the page

(and you will be heard).

—  to the quiet ones by shelby leigh
The worst crying is when you’re lying in bed, with your hand over your mouth so you don’t make noise. The tears are running onto your pillow and your heart’s breaking and you’re thinking of everything that made you cry, and your other hand is on your heart or stomach because they both hurt.
—  (via sturzpoesie IG)

when you write about him
that ink is permanent

and he doesn’t deserve
to live on forever
in your words.

—  eternal words by shelby leigh

I’m going to push you away,

I need you to stay,

but I wouldn’t blame you if you dont

—  God help me//kayla
Don’t put your happiness in other people’s hands
They’ll drop it.
They’ll drop it every time.
—  (via sturzpoesie IG)

you never hurt me,
not physically,
but I still felt the pain
in your words

and maybe there’s no
visible bruise on my skin
but surely there’s a
scar on my heart

—  by shelby leigh
The Thing About Trauma

It’s not as easy
as being Something That Happened to You,
a package you opened once.

You will wake up in a new ZIP code,
have to wander your way home,
carry a few of the things you love
to this new place
you live in now.

& so you buy throw pillows.
You put up twinkle lights
and have a big celebration,
point at the open windows
and tell everyone who has ever seen you crying,


look how I have not caged myself,
look what I have made
out of two paint buckets
and the blessing of my still-here body,

but, of course, trauma leans into the bar cart.
Spills a drink on the new rug.
Breaks off the door handle on his way out.

Trauma sends you letters,
without warning,
for the rest of your life,
usually disguised as something else— 

a medical bill, maybe,
or a box of photo albums packaged up by your father,
just so you remember
trauma knows exactly where you live—

who did you think built the house?