Amaranthine Haze
Amaranthine Haze

Whatever. I won’t be around much longer.


I miss people longer than normal. My mother looks
down at me with pursed lips, says honey do you want
to come out of bed today? I think soft things: a girl,
mouth pressed against metal teeth. A boy, a wrecked
car, highway streaked like light. A woman & a man
in a floral hotel room, pink bruises. I miss you
longer than normal. It’s hard to write a love poem that isn’t a lie.

I’m not doing so well. A robber in a ski mask shot a man
in a deli, headlines say. I know how that felt, soft thoughts:
shoving Hershey bars and Bic lighters into a yellow pillow case,
ears ringing, fingers bruised, dying noises
coming from behind the counter.

A man, a wrecked car, highway streaked like light.
Lips like broken eggs, a kiss like yolk. Fawn throats,
wet with blood, the sky littered with glass. I’m still looking
for my get away car. City lights like the mouth
of a river. Something empty.

You used to pluck flowers from my teeth.

Not even twenty-one yet, but I’m so over the party scene.

"every time you
tell your daughter
you yell at her
out of love
you teach her to confuse
anger with kindness
which seems like a good idea
till she grows up to
trust men who hurt her
cause they look so much
like you.

to fathers with daughtersrupi kaur (via cavum)

(via the-madtwatter)


Denis Cherim


isnt it weird that you won’t remember this exact moment in like a month

(via calabozos)

The Look

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