in medias res


We live universally—
fighting our own verison
of the same battles
(where war wages on
uncertainty and excuses).
We are bound by
humanity (stitched
with flaws and expectations)
and soaked in good intentions
(like keroscene, ready to set
fire to the fields we dance in)
and we ache…

DH, I can’t thank you enough for changing my life. 

it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 








Thermochromic table by Jay Watson

imagine banging someone on that table

imagine being home alone and seeing imprints on that table

noooooo stop

Imagine having a friend sit at that table for a long while, but when they get up there’s no imprints at all.

What if you got up after trying to console a crying friend, and found that you had no imprints… and they were crying because they missed you?

aaaah it was a cool table now it’s a horror/drama story

(Source: rialxoan, via discoveringmywonderland)

late she settled down deep into her body, flexed her toes. tendons reached her soul, calmed the waters, shook the walls. 

She was extending a hand that I didn’t know how to take, so I broke its fingers with my silence.

—Jonathan Safran Foer (via creatingaquietmind)

(via teachingliteracy)

roll over, bambino, roll over. 


Her knees were velvet when she prayed like the devil.

She slept where suns hid.

When Day revealed itself so did she.

You should have seen how steadily she shone

over your sun-stained gnomes that bowed down behind your home in either

sunrise reverence

or defeat. But you

you were in someone else’s bed. You did not look. She left

garden rosaries

on your door mat that

blew away with moon-cut clouds that

whirled between ears of sinners

and her believers.

Her tears spilled with your all-night midnight coffee. Her head colds and skinned knees and overdue book fines overwhelmed the night sky.

She worked with you on your worst days

and against you

on your best. 

You pulled on your snow boots

the morning she lay sick in bed.