juneoakley:

I am an autumn leaf,
a single vibration of the hand 
can destroy me
so let me fly and jet over all those places
I long to see
I will land in clinking airtwists and
praying hands
and all along I will wait
for someone to catch me
in their mouth so I can leak
the sunshine I carried on my wings.

the-apology-peach:

broken boys
with tattoos
they can’t talk about

smiles like scars
on their pain

and laughter
that always seems to end
in a sigh

don’t touch me

I am not
the greener grass
the gentle hand
the quiet home

I am not
your salvation

If you want to discuss this, I will have to ask that you do this on a more private level. On my about page, there is an email address at which you may contact me.

Well, it’s possible, yes. I’ve seen it done, and I have spoken to ghosts before. There are lots of methods, and if you want information on exactly how to speak to ghosts, I suggest you do some intensive research. Google helps. Good luck, friend.

Are you asking if it’s possible, or if I personally can talk to ghosts?

      The pause in my speech had made her uncomfortable. “No, no,” she shook her head, her blonde hair moving in delicate waves, reminiscent of those in the tall campus grass when the wind blew hard enough. I could tell when she looked back up at me that she was getting emotional: her solemn earthy-brown eyes were red and beginning to swell with tears, though the redness had likely been from her awakening. “James got a call from the police last night,” she began, trying to speak as evenly as possible. She looked over my shoulder, toward the door, and my mind raced. Knowing Norman, he’d done something stupid after another one of his parties and landed himself in trouble with the cops. I didn’t say anything, only exhaled, and she continued. “He said that the police told him Norm had been involved in some kind of accident, and he went up to the station to find out what happened.”

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mademoisellechapeau:

I was eighty-five liters of deep blue sea

poured in your old copper bathtub,

you tasted salt and darkness

and traces of neon-green plastic wire

when you tried to drown yourself -

your lungs were too small to hold my breath.

porchlights:

Underneath the pool skimmer—
cut with chlorine and shock—
hyphenated with tinges of regret,
panties bathe in urine.

She swears her Target.com bathing suit
is immaculate,
like Wet Seal but way better,
as the evening grows haphazardly.

JC is playing pocket pool,
his hand caressing Easter eggs.
…