Be brave.
Courage isn’t measured by the
number of people you’ve turned away
or by the counts of the nights you’ve
spent alone because you refuse to
give someone the chance to love you.
Being alone is not poetic;
you’ve got to let them in.
Let them peel back your skin
and waltz into your bloodstream
and love them,
love them,
love them.
by Emily Palermo, “A Lesson in Entropy” (via theilliteratewrites)
Thursday, 07:17 PM   + 84
reblogs  

Today marks the one year anniversary of my starting this blog, so I really just want to thank you all for all the kind words and support that you give. It means the absolute world to me!

And I know you left because I was too heavy of a burden.

Because I tried to find a savior in the body of a boy with a hungry mouth,

Who didn’t understand fractured things.

I’m sorry I thought you could carry this weight on your shoulders;

I’m sorry this bed is half-empty.

by Emily Palermo, Half-Empty (via s-0-m-e-o-f-t-h-e-s-e-d-a-y-s)
Wednesday, 02:55 PM   + 67
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Anonymous said: So this is going to sound silly, but would it be okay for you if I quoted a few lines from your poem Apollo in a fanfiction I'm doing? I'm alkjira over on AO3. I don't have a tumblr but a friend linked me the poem and it's just so beautiful. (also your ask button is kinda out of wack, it's got an extra bit of code that's snuck in)

Of course you can!

Also, thank you for telling me; I had no idea!

Sunday, 12:07 PM   + 2

I dream that we are swimming
in a lake of corpses and
all you want to do is
take them home and
pretend their lips aren’t blue.

You want to dance and kiss me hungry,
but the bodies are still there,
dressed in your Sunday best,
uneaten apples rotting before them.

Why are we always trying
to breathe life into dead things?
Why does nothing stay buried?
It’s noon, and ghosts are only
haunting us because we let them,
because we made a place for them here,
in our home, in our heavy hearts.

We are pumping electricity into our veins
and calling it light,
calling it the sun,
calling it God.

You are kissing me hollow,
and we call it love;
we pretend that the bodies
are no longer there,
that the voices
in our heads
are our own.

by Emily Palermo, We Made the Ghosts (A Response to Richard Siken’s Scheherazade)
Anonymous said: Have you ever read a Charles Bukowski? They are hilarious.

I have! I like bought a Bukowski book because I liked some of the quotes I read on tumblr, and some of his stuff is good, but for a lot of it I’m like “son, chill.”

Wednesday, 01:24 PM   + 3
I want to be a mystery to you,
untouchable,
a star all to myself
a galaxy away from your starved fingers.
by Emily Palermo, from “Everything”. (via perfect)
Tuesday, 11:23 PM   + 14469
reblogs  
Anonymous said: Hi. I've read "Your Sadness is a Poison" some months ago and you have no idea how your work saved me. I was losing myself, trying to blend in my shadows, waiting for someone. But your work showed me the world. These months haven't been easy, but I'm slowly getting better. I'll probably never meet you to thank you for everything, so: thank you for opening my eyes before it was too long. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I don't want to even think how I'd be right now if I hadn't read it.

I’ve been like reading this and rereading this all day and crying a little bit because messages like this mean so, so much to me and all of you guys are so beautiful and important and I’m just honored that you even take the time to read what I write. So, thank /you/.

And I’m so indescribably happy that you can feel yourself getting better because you deserve the entire goddamn world, okay?

Tuesday, 08:42 PM   + 7

Close you eyes;
maybe you can imagine
that love is enough,
that you never knew the
sweet taste of doubt
in the throat,
that she is not slowly
forgetting your name
after you failed her,
after you watched
as hell’s fingers
gripped her waist
and yanked her back
into the darkness,
all the while she was
reaching out for your
cursed hand.

Open your eyes;
you can only go forward.

Wipe your tears;
you can never go back.

This is the tragedy of lovers.
This is the triumph of the gods.

How could you have
expected a miracle?

by Emily Palermo, Orpheus Is Still Singing Sad Songs

The danger of freedom is this:
it’s too much,
too much,
all-encompassing
and hungry.
gnashing our bones
between broken teeth,
and we are trapped
before we even realize
that we have borne
our own destruction.

The beauty of freedom is this:
the choice,
that paper moment between
life and death,
birth and devastation
when we are capable of anything,
when we can swallow stars,
when we can grow orchards from our veins,
when we can hold the sea in our lungs,
when we can kiss the sun full on the mouth.

Icarus sang “Hallelujah”
as his body burned,
with lips seared and smiling.

by Emily Palermo, Icarus
llmns