onewillow:

A worry, a relationship, a project that has run its course. Let go of anxiety over the future. Let go of guilt.

Let go of other people’s dreams for you. Let go of the fear that happiness or success or love or joyousness somehow isn’t for you.

Let go of feeling unwanted. Go outside, can you feel how deeply your presence is craved here?

Let go of the small and burdensome things. Gifts never opened. Keys without a lock. Broken earrings, old love letters, the ephemera on your fridge.

As David Whyte writes, “Anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you.” This Autumn, let go of all the clothes you have outgrown.

Let go of comparison.

Let go of doubt.

Let go of the feeling that you are somehow not good enough.

Because every imperfect apple that lays soft in your hands, and every ray of low Autumn sunlight that warms you through woolens will tell you a different story, a much truer story. The story that you are more, much more, than enough. That you bless this world simply by being alive.

angelealowes:

“you were always heavy fists, broken floorboards. i was always wolf-girl, teeth bared the minute you walked into the room. took these shards of broken glass and called it love. loved the way it distorted my reflection. loved the way it showed me who i wasn’t until i forgot who i wanted to be. a year later, finally found the words to call you the let down you turned out to be. broke another glass when it sunk in that i let you turn out this way. another: the year i spent blaming myself for your inability to love anything more than yourself another: cleaning up all this broken glass another: pulling the splinters out of your knuckles another: more glass another: more glass another: more glass spin it sweet, say the blood tastes like cherries. like love. another: the glass in my mouth another: the glass in my hair another: self abuse told like a love poem
another: you taught me only how to love in shards
another: always loving with bloody hands and there’s all this glass left on my bedroom floor.
and i don’t see myself clearly. and this boy has never
put his fist through anything and i don’t know what
to do with hands that aren’t looking for another gun. another: glass in the dustpan
another: a year without your name in my mouth
another: glass still in the poem
another: glass still in the girl
another: boy with surgical hands
another: another:
another: i heave up the taste of cherries.
i pull the glass out of my own knuckles.
i forget your name. i learn my own reflection again.”

— Walls Could Talk, Angelea Lowes (via wildfairy)

lifeinpoetry:

“Let me tell you, I will go. Unlock the / door. I will decapitate the darkness.”

— Jennifer Rouse, from “Riding with Anne Sexton,” Riding with Anne Sexton

pagewoman:

“And then, one fairy night, May became June.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

violentwavesofemotion:

when vincent van gogh said “but you must love with a high, serious intimate sympathy, with a will, with intelligence, and you must always seek to know more thoroughly, better, and more”

proselesbian:

“When I first saw you, I thought you were like a creature who’d lived all its life among pearls and old bones.”

— Virginia Woolf, from The Voyage Out