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"I can tell if two people are in love by how they hold each other’s hands" 👫❤

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I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
now but I keep drinking all the ink from my pen, bitter
taste on my tongue, replacing the sickly
sweet words you left in my mouth and the salt
I cried when the letters
stopped coming.

I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
now but I keep shooting up with the ink
from my pen, letting it pool in the veins
that you once touched.
You always told me I had the prettiest blood
so maybe this is all out of spite because I am different
now. I’ve been meaning to write to you for three years
and I used to write my letters in cursive and blood
because I thought it was romantic
but I am different

now. I am no longer the paper
for you to write love letters to yourself
upon. I am no longer the brittle bone for you to carve
our initials into. I am no longer the girl who cuts
herself on your broken
pieces on demand. I am not a

girl. I am a fire-storm
with skin and you cannot touch me anymore
and you cannot hurt me anymore because I
have already burnt away the sepia tones and pretenses
you called love. I’ve been meaning to write
for three years now and this is your eviction
notice because you will no longer inhabit
my thoughts or my chest. You will stay

in the pages of the letters you never wrote
me and I will write,
for my
self, a poem.

Yen BellesangInkblood
(via aestheticintrovert)
42 notes
yenbellesang aestheticintrovert
Someone needs
to teach your
greedy heart
how to give
as much as it
readily takes. Noor Shirazie (via aestheticintrovert)
99 notes

Venice, Italy
hadrian6 aestheticintrovert
5,039 notes
blackgirlwhiteboylove rhetoricalsoul
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Nayyirah Waheed, nejma
reclaim-simplicity aestheticintrovert
Sometimes your
heart beats so fast
you prepare
yourself for death.

But you don’t die.

What are left with
however, is this:
Fear, fear, fear and
courage. Aisha Iqbal 
(via asoulsearch)
32 notes

Bring me your pain, love. Spread
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroidery
on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
still hot from your body. Empty
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of a pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal might
carry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.

Ellen Bass, “Basket of Figs” (via iameatingpoetry)
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iameatingpoetry commovente
prettystuff thebirdsandthetrees
How could you
whisper the same
poetry into her ear
that I wrote for you
in confidence?

Those sentiments
were never meant
to be passed on
like a tainted baton. Noor Shirazie (via aestheticintrovert)
98 notes
You’re a pretty
girl, but I often
think your eyes
have seen too
much for your age. Noor Shirazie (via aestheticintrovert)
661 notes
aestheticintrovert sxulfully
paradisefotografias sullenmurmurs
If you want to
leave, then leave.

I didn’t feel compelled
to give you a reason
to stay, and you left at
the first sign of trouble.

We are selfish souls with
no need for the other.
This was never going to
end on amicable terms. Noor Shirazie (via aestheticintrovert)
154 notes
1,307 notes
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In that order.
nomediocre sullenmurmurs