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I Wrote Seventeen Poems the Day You Left (Why Can I Not Let Go) by LeahJuliett (via be-free-barbie)

I wrote seventeen poems
the day you left
on my upper thigh
in black sharpie
and laid still
in bed for six days
until the ink
wore off

I thought
for a moment
to get the words
tattooed onto
my skin
but I have a problem
with things that
claim to be permanent:

they aren’t

so I wrote poems
over indentations
in my legs
watching the black
tar penetrate old
and new skin
like fertilizing
a battle field
of stretch marks
and scars

It has been three years
two summers
and I have
dyed my hair
dark so you
would not
recognize me
if you ever saw me again
but the poems
still remain
in sharpie
underneath flowing skirts
and bathing suits
that I buy but never wear:

you promised me
that you would love me
for the rest of my life
but like the sharpie that fades
or tattoos that burn;
nothing is permanent
words only leave stains
that are barely legible
but always there-

and everything hurts .

Earnest Hemingway (via aquoteadaykeepsthemonstersaway)

(via morethanametaphor)

When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen.

Unknown (via nostalgicjoy)

(Source: the-healing-nest, via nostalgicjoy)

You wanna know what living life to the fullest actually is? It’s waking up on a Monday morning with no complaints. It’s knowing you always deserve to laugh. It’s doing what feels right no matter what. It’s doing what you want to, no matter how stupid you look. It’s about being yourself, ‘cause no one can tell you you’re doing it wrong.

John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men (via morethanametaphor)

(Source: observando, via morethanametaphor)

Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.
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