We’re both crying in my flat again
but it’s not about each other.
It’s about weakness. Yours and mine.
Your ability to get on a plane and sleep in my bed.
My ability to let you.
How we touch and it means nothing;
but we do it anyway.
A force of habit
like flicking the ash off a cigarette
or removing your shoes by the door.
I am the motion you go through
when you can’t find another good bed to die in.
Yours are the hands I want on my throat,
but only when you’re gone.
Only when they’re not really your hands.
Just the memory of pressure. Trista Mateer  (via tristamateer)

(via tristamateer)

I’m trying to unlove you with the lazy urgency politicians adopt when bickering about global warming. a “we should do something, but not today” mindset. maybe tomorrow. maybe next spring. maybe when it’s easier to swallow that we’ve destroyed that which gives without taking. it’ll never be easier to swallow. - Caitlin Conlon (via cgcpoems)

(via tristamateer)

I.
i’m the kind of asshole
who will stand on the other
side of the room the whole
night, silently hoping
you will touch me.

why ask for the things i want
when i can do nothing
and complain?

very sensible.  perhaps i’ll go
outside and beg the dead trees
for money, next.

II.
all this is to say that
if i don’t ever find out
what your hands feel like
on the backs of my thighs
i will set this goddamn house
on fire. I’M CHOKING ON MY COWARDICE WHEN I’D RATHER BE CHOKING ON YOU, by jones howell (via joneshowell)

(via tristamateer)

so the boy is not a wolf–
but he bites like one.
when you tell everyone
he has teeth, he just smiles
and smiles. ON NOT SAYING WHAT YOU REALLY MEAN IN THE FACE OF TRAUMA, Trista Mateer  (via tristamateer)

(via tristamateer)