What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly...– Sylvia Plath - The Journals of S.P. (via sallycantdance) (via heshallfromtimetotime)
Your words are treacle. They slide lazily off your tongue and fall from your mouth onto the plastic countertop. I know I can’t let you drive me home tonight. You’re hungry and I am watching you eat. The world is in more fragments with every bite you take. I can’t seem to piece anything together. You’ve put me in a jar behind your glass eyes. You suck your air in and...
apoplectic apologies and your lipstick sliced in half used to write elegy after elegy with a blunt edge on mirrors with sharp corners his heart was ripe red like the colour on your lips with which you kissed him good night kissed him good bye the final time the blooming flower from your mouth failed to spread far enough to reach the contour of his cupid’s bow and his...
At the heart of everything.
His problem was becoming too fixated on the details — like the pitch of the police sirens or the glasses they served the drinks in at the hotel restaurant on the third floor. And a few flights higher, where his imprints on the sheets became slowly permanent on the hotel bed that the maids made too many times, he memorized the colour of the curtains in all the houses he could see from his...
A Year In Photographs →
This is a link to my 365 project where I take one picture a day for a year! I’ve made it through 72 days successfully, and just wanted to ask all of you who haven’t had a chance to take a look yet to go and see the pictures I’ve been taking this year.
“Is this not how it was supposed to be?” He leaves the question hanging in the air outside the movie theatre, and I don’t know what to tell him. I am trying to decide where to start. The night is like a cold, clammy hand placed along the nape of my neck, the boys from the bar are yelling something like nonsense into the street, and we are nowhere near the ocean. When I open my...
In the winter months, the number of boys waiting outside the back doors of the girls’ dormitory building was significantly smaller than in the summertime. Still, there were those few eager, young lovers who would come to watch the clouds of their exhaled breath slip away from them and to tap their anxious feet to keep going the warmth of moving blood. I would watch one of them light a...
How My Love Fell Asleep
Bullet holes or tranquilizer guns, it doesn’t matter which. They both leave the flesh pierced, and the wounded animal collapses in the clearing. It licks all the blood clean and tires from healing itself. I’ve seen it happen. The legs always go first — the life leaves them quickly and they lie like fallen twigs on the ground. The eyes grow heavy only near the end. They dribble...