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"April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain."

- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via versteur)

(Source: petrichour, via flowers-in-sanfrancisco)

"

A poem in which I don’t compare
you to anything.
In which you are not an
elevator that I got stuck on,
or a train that never left,
but no more than a person.
No less than a person.

Today, you are not a mistake
or a rip in my tights or a lesson.
Today, I take myself home and undo,
undress, unlearn.
I take myself home and
write a poem about my skin
for the third time in a row and
then wash myself in it until
I’m clean and new.

A poem for the first full month
that didn’t hear the ache
of your name,
and for every month after.
A poem in which I am singular.
A poem in which I am more than
the people who never wanted me,
and I know this.

"

- Caitlyn Siehl, “Singular  (via goghst)

(via goghst)

st-pam:

Nightmare

(via goghst)