If somebody says, “I love you,” to me, I feel as though I had a...– — Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
crashinglybeautiful: The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. It seems that things are more like me now, that I can see farther into paintings. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my sense, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the oak, and in the ponds broken off from the sky my feeling sinks, as if standing on fishes. — Rainer...
Here we are perpetual Sunday lovers.
I am living the same day over and over again. It is the very last day of summer. It is the summer from two years ago, from five years go, three years from now. It is sweeping days of sleeping on the schoolhouse rooftop - footsteps on the metal ladder. It is the park bench on 24th street - black construction paper silhouette leaning on the wooden arm. It is a flurry of coffee shop cashiers and how...
Excerpts From Her Notebook (1)
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope.– T.S.Eliot (via amare-habeo) (via crashinglybeautiful)
They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them...– Andy Warhol (via milkatmidnight) (via vild)
This morning, waking to a stretch of nightmare canopy, I blanketed myself in more pleasant memories. They seemed to be dreams themselves in the dim light of winter morning trying to land through my window and dust away some of the darkness. Sitting rather defeated on the edge of my bed, I thought of nighttime racing over faces of places I have never been to reach me. I wait for it to consume me...
Sitting on the steps
You are the boy with sweaty palms. My heart goes out to you. Don’t lift up your head. They won’t see you anyway. This world is infatuated with all things your little hands can’t bear to touch. Don’t lift up your head. You will love them all once you have seen them. This world is full of beautiful people. Don’t lift up your head, do not meet their eyes, they will not...
You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you,...– Richard Siken (via kari-shma) (via quote-book) (via sidneybascon) (via lovecanthurt)
fanwu asked: What precedes you?
Ask me anything. Write me a letter and post it to the queries sector of my brain. Click on the ‘i’ on my picture next to all my posts in your tumblr feed and select ‘ask’. I will attempt to answer without distortion.
Somebody find the light switch.
Shattered chandelier. Like pearls being snatched from a young girl’s neck, snapped off her by some black-sleeved hand. Oh, and they scatter across the marble floor, rippling, racing to the corners. They make a sound with two-faces, like light if it had not been condemned to being silent, particles and waves all at the same time. I am standing in the corner pretending to hold something...
I wrote in diagonal in my notebook: Depending on how he feels at that exact moment, he may or may not say hello. Sometimes he squeezes me through the door like meat through mincers, and I do not quite like that so I usually slide down the hallway walls like the meat I have become and wait to whet his appetite from behind the door. Later he often buys me flowers, maybe it makes me feel better....
We were born to die.
(via expression-k) No. We are born to live. Death is just an inconvenient side-effect.
I am still a high school girl.
I haven’t picked up my camera in days. My vision is littered only with so many pictures I haven’t taken. I haven’t. I haven’t. I haven’t. I haven’t touched anything beautiful in too long.
My legs are heavy.
I sat still for the longest time and paid attention only to the acid crawling up the inside of my throat. When it reached the back of my tongue I reached for anything - anything at all - in some facet of my memory to distract myself. I remembered you and your fingers on the back of my neck. They felt always like they had shriveled up from washing your hands over and over of blood that wasn’t...
lift up the floodgates and dress in all red we are the marauder’s pocketknife, the magician’s sleight of hand dancers on thin ice under dimming lights usher in the promise of tomorrow take my eyes as your alibi we were never here.
Climbing into boxes, you are shutting yourself up, shutting yourself up. Darling, it’s not moving day. If you insist, I will duct tape your borders sealed and ship you off to someone else’s junkyard. They will open you up down there and wonder why it is that I put my girl in a mourner’s dress for new year’s day.