The Sun Tosses Herself Into The Arms Of The Sea

The sun tosses herself into the arms of the sea

His vast embrace, the only thing she has never felt too infinite for

She takes comfort in being swallowed whole for the night 

Savours the sensation of being devoured 

~ oh celestial love, even the sun longs to be encompassed sometimes, for it is no weakness to desire to be held. you are never too much for someone who cannot get enough of you.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon together again. While sitting in the sun searching for a conversation worth having, I consider asking you if you think you would survive the apocalypse. But I know you will ask me the same question in return. And I know I would not survive. If the zombies or meteors or sickness or end came for me, I would not be able to run. I would probably face my end thinking of my mother and scared. I am not good at survival. I am not good at staying away from the things that can kill me. I am not good at hunting for food, but I am good at sitting still and letting myself be devoured. I am not good and filtering water, I always seem to have a knack for swallowing the most obvious poisons, mostly because I am always thirsty. Always insatiable. I am not good at healing. And no one will have time to wait for me to stop picking at my scabs and writing poetry in my own blood until I decide I deserve to heal. I am no good at taking what I need or fighting to live. But I think if the apocalypse or the end or the sickness or the meteor or the zombies came for us right now, you and me, in the afternoon sun, I think I would survive a moment. I think you would take my by the arms and shake me until I realized I had to move, I have to keep going, because you are not leaving me and to stay means your demise too. I imagine you tugging me along to safety. I think of you keeping me alive and I do not know why. Or why I am thinking of this. I think of you saying my name. I think of how safe its pronounication feels on your tongue. I think of you not leaving me behind. I think of your hand in mine and the end coming for us and I am not afraid. Because for some reason I am safe here and know I will always be.

Is it safe where you are?

the song of achilles is a story about the heartbreak that happens once in a lifetime, the heartbreak that kills you and drives you mad, the heartbreak you wish you'll never experience, the heartbreak that tears you apart until you lose yourself.

circe is a story about the heartbreak that you endure every single day, the heartbreak that consumes you from within, the heartbreak you know you can never escape from, the heartbreak that is so much a part of you that you don't even know yourself without it.

im sorry guys i just finished reading these two in a week and now idk what to do w my life thanks

And I

Let the quiet of the night devour me

Let the darkness feast upon me

(As though they crave even the crumbs

Of what remains of my existence)

And I find myself laying awake,

(Patiently)

Waiting

For them to come for me

Because it is in these moments

That I feel most desired

And even if I dissipate this way,

(Slowly consumed night after night),

Atleast I will fade

Unafraid

And

Feeling

Wanted

Your wife changes her hair color every season and her personality adjusts slightly. You’re secretly only in love with Autumn wife. She just came home sporting her Winter color.

I find your fingerprints littering the pages of all my poetry and I can't get them off without smudging the ink and ruining my work. I don't know why I let you touch it. But its more like it asked to touch you. And how could I say no? Have you ever tried to deny inspiration? And how could I blame my writing for wanting to hold you? How could I blame her?

I don't hate you for leaving but I despise you for making me think you might stay. Loathe you for letting me become accustomed to the comfort of your presence. The leaving always hurts more when it is unexpected. Wounds deeper when they are laid in the back. Taking longer to clot. Always scarring worse.

And now my lips are always chapped because you're not there reminding me to stop picking at them, and to lend me your honey lip balm. And I don't want to buy my own lip balm because its definitely going to remind me too much of you. But every time I am irked by flimsy peeling skin, like a scab begging to torn, a wound waiting to be reopened, that reminds me of you too. And so I heal and tear open stitches in a vicious cycle of remembering.

I just want to forget you.

I just want to forget you.