It took me exactly five tries to be able to let you go
without leaking regret all over your work shirt
and even then I’m sure you were able to hear my bones trembling
in the space of those silences

that was how well you could read me
not like a children’s book at all but like I
was a theory to settle the universe
and you were the only scientist to speak that code

So when you began to pull away, I knew
that falling out of love would not be the same
as falling in and even ‘fall’ was not the right word
I hurtled into you with the ferocity of a broken wing on a jet engine

you were the soft earth beneath all that metal
we fit like a collision and when we began to scrape apart
I found that pieces of myself were left inside of you
shrapnel, a bone of my elbow, the cap of my knee, my shoulder blade

there is something gently calming in the way I know
that it will take you years to methodically extract me
from your body, and that twinge you’ll get sometimes in your leg twenty years later?
it’s the fallout from where I met you head on

and I know it’s not your fault that you couldn’t stay
it’s not mine either sometimes
broken things can’t be helped but those people who say that
there is beauty in destruction?

Show them your scars
show them our train wreck of a love
there is nothing beautiful
about how two people can destroy
and save each other at the same time.

Azra.T “There’s No Beauty in the Breakdown.”  (via 5000letters)

marry me.
let’s spend our week nights eating cereal on the floor
when there is a perfectly fine table behind us.
we can go to the movies and sit in the back row
just to make out like kids falling in love for the first time.

marry me.
we’ll paint the rooms of our house
and get more paint on us than the walls.
we can hold hands and go to parties we end up
ditching to drink wine out of the bottle in the bathtub.

marry me.
and slow dance with me in our bedroom
with an unmade bed and candles on the nightstand.
let me love you forever.
marry me.

slow mornings drinking coffee naked in bed and your hands on my face when you kiss me goodnight. marry me.
d.a.h (via whisperingbones)

Lights off, curtains down, duvet up. This is how we fuck.
This is why we argue. The first time you ask me to undress for you my hands shake for two whole days.
I drop the mail, and the coffee, and the plates, anything but my clothes

I think about you naked in bed and forget how to move, wonder where to put my mouth first because
you are not soft, the ridge of your hips leave marks on my stomach, I make wing shapes
with your shoulder blades when I hold you there

there is no part of you that is scared of the way the light makes stretch marks look like tiger claws on skin
and you don’t understand that I can’t love me like you love me
so you snarl angry words into my mouth, things like ‘what’s the problem? I’ve held you everywhere, there’s no part of your body that I don’t understand’
and capture in your mouth the sobs of ‘but you haven’t seen me everywhere’

I don’t know how to tell you that I am not smooth or careful
You do not know how to show me that you don’t care
Instead we clutch at each other like two survivors in a shipwreck in the dark you kiss my stomach and my thighs and my shoulders and my breasts

In the dark you hold my hands so tightly I can’t tell if you’re trying to hold me or yourself
In the dark you mouth the parts of myself that I hate the most and whisper over and over like a prayer
‘I love you here’ and ‘I love you here’

Azra.T “Music With The Lights Turned Off” (via 5000letters)
I had a boyfriend not so long ago who, whenever we got into an argument, would accuse me of “going soap opera.” “Here comes Telemundo!” he would shout. His (clearly gendered and vaguely racist) insult was supposed to make me feel like my anger wasn’t valid—that it was frivolous and silly, that I was being overly dramatic. This was his not-so-subtle way of trying to shut me up—by accusing me of being emotional. (Unlike men, whose anger is always logical, of course.) Unfortunately, calling me out like this often worked. It felt immobilizing to be called dramatic. Even if you know you’re being reasonable, we’ve internalized sexism so much, sometimes we even begin to doubt ourselves.
from Jessica Valenti’s He’s a Stud, She’s a Slut and 49 Other Double Standards Every Woman Should Know. (via slentando)