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Let me count the ways.

I’ve tried to count the reasons that I love you.

Arranging the red, blue, and yellow M&M’s so that I could

colour code the way you make my spine shake all its leaves.

So that I could make sense of why my heart, even after it rots, and breaks, and bleeds, always find it’s way back again.

I have loved many times before,

but this time I am not gutted.

I am not barren.

I am not penniless.

I am not stale.

And I know that I have said this so many times, I could go blind: but this time it’s different. 

I think I love you because you do not put hot sauce on your food before you offer me a bite.

Because you know my favourite kind of chocolate, even when I didn’t.

Because you ears are endless tunnels of listening. Of nodding. Of relentless understanding.

Because your voice, late at night against the pillow soothes me like chamomile tea.

Because you know just how to fuck me. 

Gentle and strong.

Because you always like my hair, and you tell me that I look great, and late at night, when I am completely vulnerable before you, and every bruise of every man who once broke my heart, is lit up only by the street lamps peaking through my windows, you trace my body with your perfect hands and you tell me that I am the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

I think I love you because you taste like poetry.

Because you are poetry. 

Because you write me little speckles of poetry that are more like little speckles of your heartstrings woven into words. 

And I don’t know how I ended up here yet again.

But every time you roll over in the middle of the night and grab me tighter-I think to myself that I’ve never felt more ignited. That I have never felt more wanted.

More worshipped.

And maybe it was the way you looked at me at dinner-like I was the only woman in the city that could ramble aimlessly about child acting and family quarrels. 

Or maybe it was when you grabbed my hand and stroked the branches of my fingers when we both knew that that talk was about exactly about us.

Perhaps it was the time we were drunk and in bed on a Tuesday, and everything about the week, and the world, and my accumulating bills, and whether or not I was going to make rent, went entirely still, and I just wanted to taste the wine on your tongue for the 10th time that hour. 

Maybe I love you because I linger every time I have the slightest chance to hear the pebbles in your voice. Or at the slightest chance that you will catch my eye, and the world will shrink into the scope of your gaze, and my knees will tingle, and my pelvis becomes fluid, and my heart does somersaults, and jumping jacks and back flips. 

I don’t know how I ended up here again. 

But I do know, that if lovers were bodies of water, we would be the greatest of lakes. 


girls are trained to say, ‘i wrote this, but it’s probably really stupid.’ well, no, you wouldn’t write a novel if you thought it was really stupid. men are much more comfortable going, ‘i wrote this book because i have a unique perspective that the world needs to hear.’ girls are taught from the age of seven that if you get a compliment, you don’t go, ‘thank you’, you go, ‘no, you’re insane.’
lena dunham, in an interview with the guardian (x)

(Source: reshmarambles)




This movie character was actually so ahead of her time. 

(Source: thursdaylane)



— Sylvia Plath

— Sylvia Plath

(Source: aseaofquotes)



Here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why I’m pretty sure
we could live together. Because you are always smiling
but write poems about drowning. Because we rewrite
the lyrics of pop songs to be about Pugs and sing them loudly
even though you can’t sing. Because you once texted me
a haiku about the moon when you were drunk. Because
you once cried at the end of Die Hard on Christmas eve
when you were drunk. Because every time another man
smells like American Spirits it reminds me of you
and for a split second I fall in love with him.
Because when I’m sick you hold my hair back, bring me
fruit, kiss me on the mouth and hold me even though
I’m gross. Because you bring me flowers for no reason
but on Valentine’s Day you gave me a bouquet
of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Because you let me
give you a tattoo and you were only a little bit terrified.
Because every time I show you a poem I love you’ve read it
already. Because this morning when we woke up in my bed,
in my apartment, it felt way too small. Because we got dressed
in silence and you brought me coffee without asking.
Because as I walked you to the bus stop I said I think it’s love,
the real kind this time. I have said that to so many others
before but this time feels different. Because we both knew
I was saying it more to myself than to you. Because
you kissed me goodbye anyway and smiled and said
I love you too.




Posted by BelleVie


Posted by BelleVie

bedtime Nirvana

Waking up to you feels like being held in the cocoon

of a gentle storm,

I sleep with such stimulated serenity. 

We dream like spinning tops, forever revolving

only stopping to breath when our eyes awake

like sail boats cruising through tranquil waters.

I look at you and I see so many stories.

I often wish that we could sail with such

ease forever. That the seas would never part

and the revolution of our cycle together would spin

until we were too dizzy to know differently.

I bit into you, even though you were forbidden.

The bites are endless, and the nectar of everything

that is you tastes like the Nirvana of contentment. 

Your arms, the cornucopia of nourishment, I float.

Across the stream of our muddy waters

we are buoyant in our divinity. 





"I don’t have any deadlines now that I’m writing for myself, but I’m having trouble finishing things. It’s much easier to stop when something is due than to stop when it’s good."


"I don’t have any deadlines now that I’m writing for myself, but I’m having trouble finishing things. It’s much easier to stop when something is due than to stop when it’s good."



seeking balance


I don’t know when I lost myself in you.

It might have been last Christmas when I woke up in your bed. My family called to wish me a Merry Christmas, and I muttered it back quietly, hand over my mouth and the receiver, because you don’t celebrate Christmas and I didn’t want you to hear.

It might…



(Source: elxzxbxth)



Thing the about you is that you write me passages

from deep in the dungeons of your belly, that I can

never draw from your lips.

The truth about me is that this is not my first time at the rodeo.

I am the woman of all things about love.

 I am the woman of the world.

The woman of independence, and separate bills, and journals full of wanderlust and questions about sex and strength and if those are the things that weaken me.

But the truth is, there is nothing about you that isn’t poetry, and I could spend all day writing you into something beautiful,

but the truth is you already are.


Clementine Von Radics


i wonder if you know that you’ll leave me. that you are a child playing with matches and i have a paper body. you will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms. she will not have violent secrets, or and affection for ride wine, or eyes that never stay dry.

you will fall into her bed…



"How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts and songs in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn’t collapse in a heap of “I could have been better than this” and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve. And “if your Nerve, deny you –,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, “go above your Nerve.”
Cheryl Strayed from Tiny Beautiful Things. 



There was a time

when I looked at you

and I saw two children playing in the sand,

wrinkled hands conjoined,

I saw pregnant bellies

and a beach wedding,

I saw yellowed photo albums

and endless days in bed.

But on that highway with you,

illuminated only by tiny red lights,

and the weight of your tears falling

heavily on my arm,

I watched every vision I had of us, fade into the

exit signs. 

We passed them by, one by one.

And I knew.

We were never cryptic and we were never scarce.

But we were bold and we were beautiful,

And our love was as sturdy as mountains,

until I decided that instead, I needed travel across them.




when i asked all the women in my life, this is what they said.


I asked my great-grandmother how her arthritic bones felt

and she said better now that all the men on the street

consider her too old to wolf-whistle at like a soup kitchen

they think they’re entitled to their share of.

They just wanted to fill their bellies without caring

whether the…