In the 2nd grade
my hair was so long
it would get caught
in the screws
on the back of
my chair.

Tiny pieces would be 
ripped out and left behind, 
I’d be sure to collect
them so no one would
walk off with parts of me.

And not much has changed,
except now I don’t get
to take my parts back,
people walk off with
bits of me before
I even realize they were
close enough to take
anything at all.



How easily we fall in love, 
obliviously we place 
our hearts in the hands of others, 
like so many times before, 
naively expecting it to 
be returned the way in which we left it. 

It is done with the same 
optimistic feeling as one who 
waits for the newness of autumn 
despite its familiarity —
the period between 
the overbearingly hot 
and the unbearable cold.

We’ll invite strangers into 
our hearts to remove all 
common sense from our heads. 
We’ll forget the pain of 
scorching words or 
numbing heartbreak, 
adopt a forced optimism that
sees hope in utter hopelessness.

We are human and we 
have succumbed to seasons of love, 
the unbreakable cycle. 
We will stand hand in hand 
and admire the changing of 
the leaves and comment on 
how beautiful it all is despite 
knowing it means they’re dying.

[submitted by lucyquin]

I always loved the city more at night, when it was dark but most alive. When there were no people, no distractions, just solitude. It always had a certain mystique at night, there were smells that I couldn’t find in the day, and it always looked so beautiful no matter what angle I’d look at it despite how harsh its exterior was. It was a force to be reckoned with. It let me run up and down its alleyways and streets with an utter sense of crazed freedom. It let me lay on its benches and watch entire floors of lights go off in buildings across the river. It let me hide inside of it when everything else got far too overwhelming, and it quickly became my closest friend. Because the city was just like me. In the light of day it too would have all its flaws exposed — its cracks and crumbling infrastructure, its missing parts and bruises, people pumping through its veins without permission — but at night it’d breathe easier. Because it knew that some of us are most alive when we’re sure no one’s watching because we’re frightened, more so of what makes the shadows rather than the shadows themselves.
Being human is a condition and happiness is a piece of priceless artwork. We’re constantly reaching out for it, begging to feel something innately beautiful but being reminded not to touch anything. Because to touch something so rare will inevitably ruin it, so we stare at safe distances at the things we long for in fear we’ll destroy them.

Anonymous asked:

Do you still have snapchat? You haven't opened my snap I sent months ago lol

I haven’t been on it in forever because I had this nice idea that you guys would get poems every day but instead I got penises and boobs every day. So yeah, basically it all boils down to everyone I follow sends me their boobs and wangs and no one can behave themselves.

You had a kindness
like sharks teeth,
shed a thousand times
over, lost to fossilize along
the unpredictable sea of what
was your promised best intentions.

Underneath more
kept growing, razor sharp
forget me nots along a
misleading mouth  
unhinged and unpredictable,
capable of such beauty but
only being known for its destruction.

And some days I still find
your teeth in my skin,
I string them together to wear
like war decorations,
a reminder of the time I
meant to fall in love but
went to battle instead.