Thoughts I Have At Midnight

When you lie awake at night and stare at your ceiling, it's almost like your entire world closes in for you. Like all aspects of your life are piecing together while you slowly begin to see and realize things that you have never before. That's why I call this, Thoughts I Have at Midnight. Because at midnight is when my world makes sense.

Clear your mind here

i. When you showed up at my doorstep in your
faded band tee shirt, dirty conserves, and hair
messed in your face like you just got done
fucking in bed, then fell asleep for a few hours.
Your breath smelled like leftover alcohol and
every word you spoke burned my wounds.
It was our first date, at the end of it I kinda, s
orta, hoped that it was the last.

ii. When you told me I wore so much make up,
and asked why I always put “so much effort
into attempting to look good.” Attempting.

iii. When the first time I said no you looked
at me like I slapped you across the face and
ripped a piece of your being away from you.
You looked at me like you were waiting for
an apology so I gave you a sorry like left over
change in my pocket.

iv. When we talked it was always about the
world and how it was out to get you, that it
didn’t offer you one damn good thing, and
that everyone in your life was temporary,
and fuck, I should’ve knew what was coming.

v. When I looked at you and saw a nobody,
somebody that meant nothing. I felt nothing.

vi. When the “dates” we went on were nothing
but sitting in your basement, the clouds of
smoke you’d blow in my face. I told you how
much I hated smoking, but you did it anyway,
most the time it was just to irritate me.

vii. When you tried to push me on the bed
and asked me to stay the night, I cried out in
the bleak air and pressed my head against your
chest. I had a flashback to when I was seven and
forced to give myself up. You looked at me and
said, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

viii. When love slowly fell out of your vocabulary
as you slowly fell out of my heart.

—   i.c. // When I should’ve left you (via delicatepoetry)

(via delicatepoetry)


I feel guilty for skipping church and I feel guilty for sometimes only brushing my teeth in the morning and not at night and I feel guilty for eating junk food and I feel guilty for not telling my dad I love him and I feel guilty for skipping a workout and I feel guilty for not washing my dishes and I feel guilty for not thanking my mom like I should and I feel guilty for not being a better big sister and I feel guilty for the things I did to my wrist that would drive my parents through the roof with fear and guilt themselves I feel guilty for the fact that my mom is trying so hard but can’t understand what it’s like I feel guilty for shutting her out I feel guilty for not giving my dog enough attention I feel guilty that I can’t trust anyone fully I feel guilty that I still taste your fucking words in my mouth I feel guilty for still fucking thinking about you when I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore

—   Kayla Kathawa  (via ninakathawa)

(via ninakathawa)

silentguardian99: You read my poetry once and I think that's how I found you. It's a very personal thing to me and it seems like you have a room full of pictures inside of your head.

I feel your pain when you write and the rhythm you put with it, I like it a lot. And thank you, my mind is a weird place to be Lol I think it’s more jumbled words and scenes that anything though hah


In ethics class so many years ago
our teacher asked this question every fall:
If there were a fire in a museum,
which would you save,
a Rembrandt painting or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs
caring little for pictures or old age
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face
leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half-imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn,
darker even than winter — the browns of earth,
though earth’s most radiant elements burn
through the canvas. I know now that woman
and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond the saving of children.

—    Linda Pastan, “Ethics” (via feellng)

(Source: feellng, via langleav)

But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?


- Mark Twain

This is honestly my favorite quote. It’s changed how I look at life and religion

(via diplosomia)

(Source: the-bitchextraordinaire, via cuwtiecooties)