MORBID LONGINGS.

alma olive putnam. 21. a girl is a knife. ❝ and marvellous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was not the fragile creature one would have her seem.❞

[lunah-goodbye]

the cruel prince, 2018

richard iii, 1593

frankenstein, 1818

[shesnake]

Gone Girl (2014) dir. David Fincher

[almarchive]

fefebloom·:

“Answer the phone you absolute piece of shit. I will rip you apart! Answer the fucking phone!” Felice shouted into speaker, letting out a squeal of frustration as she hung up for the fourth time. Fighting back angry tears, she swiped at her face and turned around to walk back toward the house party only to come face to face with someone that had likely witnessed the whole display. “Shit. Sorry. Really making a fucking name for myself here.”

Though she hadn’t meant to, Alma had witnessed the scene by default as she silently exited the house in need of a cigarette. “Don’t apologise. Anger makes its home in the best of us.” The shrug of her shoulders was almost catlike as she patted down her pockets in search of a lighter, a carton of Marlboros wedged under her elbow. “It’s funny... how women always feel the need to apologise for an outburst --- like it’s something to be ashamed of or rebuked. Unnatural. Unfeminine.” Hands happened upon a zippo, flicking it thrice before it caught and sparked the end of her cigarette. “Yet with men, an inherent animal nature is almost praised. Food for thought. Smoke?”

[almarchive]

fvkmargot·:

to most, stacking books all day would be mindless. for margot: it was a second home. leave it to her when looking for a job while at college to find one at a little used bookstore nestled away downtown. she swore she could get lost in here for hours. each book had a history, each page had an owner. yes, the girl may have been one of those people who enjoyed the smell of books. as she continued to try and categorize the new donations, her eye couldn’t help but wander over to the person about a foot away from her, fingering through one of the books. “interesting choice.” her voice small yet loud enough to be heard. “I mean, good choice. not interesting. well, I mean it’s interesting but interesting has such a negative connotation in this light because english has to be so damn complicated.” 

        when she thinks of hell she pictures a bookshelf, the crooked spines of every book she’s ever read, names in striking typeface — burroughs. de beauvoir. hemmingway. joyce --- and being told, choose only one. it’s like picking which child to save from a fire, or which of her own limbs to hack off with an ice pick. favourites are reductive. ask her a book she could thumb ‘til it’s dog-eared death and she’d say the bloody chamber and other stories, where girls skin the wolves that loved them. ask her a book that she couldn’t put down and she’ll say song of achilles, huddled beneath the duvet in the small hours, a flashlight and tears on her face. but ask her her favourite and she’ll pause for a moment, running her tongue over the backs of her teeth, think antigone but the words leave her mouth as “jude the obscure”. funny how the ones that stayed with her are tales of new-found wealth and self-reinvention in a town where nobody knows your name. an idle dream of hers, perhaps, formed like a seed at the back of her throat while anxiously paging through walden. there’s comfort in the woods, in the crunch of bracken, no longer a girl but a nymph, a spirit, a fox, an owl. changeling, bare soles on the earth and twigs catching on a white nightgown’s muddied hem.·

        she’s in her own head like a caged bird, drawn out only by the sound of the shop assistant’s voice --- musical, but still enough to startle her, tote bag dropped against the carpet.·“the burial at thebes?” alma responds, somehow cryptic of the speaker’s words.·“not so much interesting as necessary. sophocles in translation is a compulsory module, but i find i prefer the original texts. there’s a rawness in them that even poets like heaney have failed to capture. it’s like when a singer covers someone else’s song --- the words don’t come from their mouth. it loses its authenticity.”

[markantonys]

Every Roman philosopher ever: oh sorry for that 13 page tangent where i listed obscure examples from roman history, i guess i’m just too educated and i got carried away… where was i? Oh right; VIRTUE!

[diane-selwyn]

[valtsv]

ok but the concept of a rivalry is just so funny. it’s like “i’m literally obsessed with you. you’re the only motherfucker on the planet worth my undivided time and attention. i spend hours planning in detail exactly what i’m going to say and do the next time that we meet. but, like, i fucking hate you.”

[marypickfords]

Tomie (Ataru Oikawa, 1999)

[almarchive]

         If heaven is a convent, then hell is a library. Truth and knowledge sit hand in hand at the devil’s gates and if Alma ever dies she vows to meet them head-on, the way an old friend would, but death can’t touch girls who plan to live forever. At heart, she’s a hedonist, half-drunk on the idea that she’s a God, but knowledge is a kind of power and isn’t Godliness a question not of who holds the bigger stick, but rather who’s head houses a larger brain? She’s spread over desk space, laptop and a stack of anthologies, fingertips black with inkblots by the time she goes hunting for Simone De Beauvoir and ends up ensnaring Rhett Dacus instead. “Oh... Hello, you.” Her composure isn’t rattled, though she’d hardly expected him to stumble back into her, carving a path towards him with the half-witted idea of covering his eyes, uttering ‘guess who’ and not letting go until she felt like it. 

             She tucks herself between the scholar and the bookshelf, chin lifting to catch his eye as she runs her index along the spine of the book. “Don’t you think it’s funny how parts of a text are named with the lexis of anatomy? Spine… Appendix… Body... Foot…” Her nose wrinkles somewhat, expression distracted. “Oh. I’d assumed there were more. Coincidental, perhaps.” A look as direct as the barrel of a gun, her eyes keen and shrewd. “If you believe in coincidences.” @rhtdcs​

[tawnygrisette]

in my mind i am always the feral woman wearing a white nightdress with a mud-stained hem and twigs in my hair, running through a forest bathed moonlight, screeching along with the owls and foxes

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

Rosy (2018) Directed by Jess Bond

[bostonpoetryslam]

There are teeth where my heart should be and they are always hungry.

Suzi F. Garcia, “Run Away With Me (for Carly Rae),” published in Barrelhouse (via bostonpoetryslam)

[fashionweeksfaves]

Gucci Fall 2019

[auldcine]

Leslie Howard and Bette Davis in It’s Love I’m After (1937)

[apocryphics]

No mirrors please. Begone reflections!!!! Make every surface non-reflective. I want to forget what I look like. I don’t want to be held captive by my appearance. Allow me to just exist nearest to my soul and to shuffle off my physical form. Let me detach myself from that ingrained, indelible, tragic, and all-too-feminine desire to be beautiful.

[thatsbelievable]

[fyeahmovies]

The Lobster (2015), dir. Yorgos Lanthimos