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T.E. Talbott
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in The United States
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April 2019
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melancholia in the milky way
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Strangers
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coughing up cobwebs
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* Note: these are all the books on Goodreads for this author. To add more, click here.
ethereal
may the ones i leave behind
never lie in their journals,
in their conversations, or to themselves
and call me “too good for this world,”
when the world and i have always been two of a kind.
let it be known that not all unsuitable things
are too perfect or too light to be ill-matched
for the place you were born into;
some of us are heavy,
some of us are undoubtedly flawed.
no, we were never etherea
T.E.’s Recent Updates
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Haha thank you Erika, I appreciate your support over the years and for the time and love you've given my books
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"I've been eagerly waiting for this collection since the day I finished Melancholia in the Milky Way, so when I saw it was finally out, I made a beeline to buy it.
I was NOT disappointed, not in the slightest. Oftentimes I was left speechless. In tear" Read more of this review » |
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Thank you so much for your support, I'm so thankful that my book made you feel understood ❤️
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"T.E. Talbott is a gift to the literary world. Her poetry is simultaneously thought-provoking and scrutable. Reading Melancholia in the Milky Way was one of the very rare experiences in my life where I finally felt understood. Without a doubt, it is o"
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Wow! Thank you so much for such an in depth and kind review Erika. I really appreciate it ❤️
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"The characters in Strangers felt so sincere—they are people you feel as though you could find and care about in the real world. There are no perfect people in this story and that makes it feel so beautifully human. The challenge of grief is explored "
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thank you beautiful ❤️
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"literally one of the best books ive read the author is speaking right from the heart "
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T.E. Talbott
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hi, I'm not exactly sure whether I'm posting this in the right area, but I'd like to request assistance with adding this book to my author page. I'm n
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“they say actions speak louder than words;
tell me why we swallow poetry
like it's some kind of cure.”
― melancholia in the milky way
tell me why we swallow poetry
like it's some kind of cure.”
― melancholia in the milky way
“i am something very gentle, very jealous
of the selfless way my heart pumps blood
for my ungrateful body,
of how the bones in my spine uplift my head,
despite how i insist we're crumbling,
we're crumbling,
always crying over spilled milk,
when i could be strong
like stainless steel or spider silk,
when i could be kevlar
instead of the honeycombed human
digging out bullets,
when i could be the tornado
instead of Dorothy missing Kansas,
when i could be a bone-dry Martini
instead of the one retching,
when i could be something like you,
the shoulder to lean on
and not the one reeling,
the one picking up eggshells
and never the one breaking.”
― melancholia in the milky way
of the selfless way my heart pumps blood
for my ungrateful body,
of how the bones in my spine uplift my head,
despite how i insist we're crumbling,
we're crumbling,
always crying over spilled milk,
when i could be strong
like stainless steel or spider silk,
when i could be kevlar
instead of the honeycombed human
digging out bullets,
when i could be the tornado
instead of Dorothy missing Kansas,
when i could be a bone-dry Martini
instead of the one retching,
when i could be something like you,
the shoulder to lean on
and not the one reeling,
the one picking up eggshells
and never the one breaking.”
― melancholia in the milky way
“sometimes i feel more like a house than a person
with the way i decorate my body and my face
to hide damaged walls and empty spaces;
my heart is more like a door with changed locks
because i've made multiple keys for people
who walked all over me with filthy shoes,
people who said they could live here,
but they were just passing through.
i hope my eyes are not windows,
because i fear what the world might see—
all of my flaws and insecurities on display
like a coffee table or some shoddy love seat.
sometimes i swear i left the oven on and forgot
because my mind feels like a smoke detector
with the way my apprehension never calms.
i smell smoke, but i can't see it;
i'm told things are never as bad as i make them,
but every wildfire starts with a spark
and it's easy to burn when you're a house made of straw.”
― melancholia in the milky way
with the way i decorate my body and my face
to hide damaged walls and empty spaces;
my heart is more like a door with changed locks
because i've made multiple keys for people
who walked all over me with filthy shoes,
people who said they could live here,
but they were just passing through.
i hope my eyes are not windows,
because i fear what the world might see—
all of my flaws and insecurities on display
like a coffee table or some shoddy love seat.
sometimes i swear i left the oven on and forgot
because my mind feels like a smoke detector
with the way my apprehension never calms.
i smell smoke, but i can't see it;
i'm told things are never as bad as i make them,
but every wildfire starts with a spark
and it's easy to burn when you're a house made of straw.”
― melancholia in the milky way
“they say actions speak louder than words;
tell me why we swallow poetry
like it's some kind of cure.”
― melancholia in the milky way
tell me why we swallow poetry
like it's some kind of cure.”
― melancholia in the milky way
“sometimes i feel more like a house than a person
with the way i decorate my body and my face
to hide damaged walls and empty spaces;
my heart is more like a door with changed locks
because i've made multiple keys for people
who walked all over me with filthy shoes,
people who said they could live here,
but they were just passing through.
i hope my eyes are not windows,
because i fear what the world might see—
all of my flaws and insecurities on display
like a coffee table or some shoddy love seat.
sometimes i swear i left the oven on and forgot
because my mind feels like a smoke detector
with the way my apprehension never calms.
i smell smoke, but i can't see it;
i'm told things are never as bad as i make them,
but every wildfire starts with a spark
and it's easy to burn when you're a house made of straw.”
― melancholia in the milky way
with the way i decorate my body and my face
to hide damaged walls and empty spaces;
my heart is more like a door with changed locks
because i've made multiple keys for people
who walked all over me with filthy shoes,
people who said they could live here,
but they were just passing through.
i hope my eyes are not windows,
because i fear what the world might see—
all of my flaws and insecurities on display
like a coffee table or some shoddy love seat.
sometimes i swear i left the oven on and forgot
because my mind feels like a smoke detector
with the way my apprehension never calms.
i smell smoke, but i can't see it;
i'm told things are never as bad as i make them,
but every wildfire starts with a spark
and it's easy to burn when you're a house made of straw.”
― melancholia in the milky way
“i am something very gentle, very jealous
of the selfless way my heart pumps blood
for my ungrateful body,
of how the bones in my spine uplift my head,
despite how i insist we're crumbling,
we're crumbling,
always crying over spilled milk,
when i could be strong
like stainless steel or spider silk,
when i could be kevlar
instead of the honeycombed human
digging out bullets,
when i could be the tornado
instead of Dorothy missing Kansas,
when i could be a bone-dry Martini
instead of the one retching,
when i could be something like you,
the shoulder to lean on
and not the one reeling,
the one picking up eggshells
and never the one breaking.”
― melancholia in the milky way
of the selfless way my heart pumps blood
for my ungrateful body,
of how the bones in my spine uplift my head,
despite how i insist we're crumbling,
we're crumbling,
always crying over spilled milk,
when i could be strong
like stainless steel or spider silk,
when i could be kevlar
instead of the honeycombed human
digging out bullets,
when i could be the tornado
instead of Dorothy missing Kansas,
when i could be a bone-dry Martini
instead of the one retching,
when i could be something like you,
the shoulder to lean on
and not the one reeling,
the one picking up eggshells
and never the one breaking.”
― melancholia in the milky way
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