"No matter how much you feed the wolf, he keeps looking at the f

" She is a dangerous woman, the kind that plays with fire and with such wilderness in her heart. So many men who try to tame always fail, for they never understood that the forest in her was sown from the start. In the moonlight alone her secret is revealed: She has the spirit of wolf that belongs to herself, to the Earth and to the dark."

[yonathas-blog]

[terrorignitis]

Juansen Dizon, i am the architect of my own destruction

[mournfulroses]

Arthur Rimbaud, from a poem titled "Night in Hell," featured in Complete Works & Selected Letters

[luthienne]

George Seferis, from Collected Poems; "Memory I" (tr. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

[Text ID: I whispered: memory hurts wherever you touch it,]

[punlovsin]

“My spring melancholy is developing in these hot days into summer madness.”

— v woolf

[hauntedbythenarrative]

Things haunt, Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

[light-and-salt]

“You are reborn with the roses, in every spring.”

— Juan Ramón Jiménez, from The Selected Writings; “Love,” wr. c. 1911

[saintweaver]

Bob Kaufman, Darkwalking Endlessly

[i-would-cut-off-my-ear-for-you]

"February is nearly always melancholy."

- Anna de Noailles

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

I find some comfort in things that aren't easy to define.

Chelsea Wolfe, from an interview February 2017

[luthienne]

My own dark time, as I call it, the time of my loneliness, was most of my life, as I have said, and I can't make any real account of myself without speaking of it. The time passed so strangely, as if every winter were the same winter, and every spring the same spring.

Marilynne Robinson, from Gilead

[incorrectedda]

“All I ask is for you to get to know me on a deep, intimate level, while I resist and obstruct your every attempt to do so.”

— Óðinn, probably.

[allgirlsareprincesses]

"Her glance became a gaze and her gaze became a powerful desire..."

- Women Who Run With The Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes

[wedge-of-poetry]

“The first flurries of snow danced against a black sky, and I found myself hoping they would tumble down in millions, stick fast, and bury everything.”

— M. L. Rio, If We Were Villains

[derangedrhythms]

There is no exquisite beauty, […] without some strangeness in the proportion. 

Edgar Allan Poe, The Penguin Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe; from ‘Ligeia’

[joliepoupee-deactivated20220202]

“All dark, all bloody, my heart,”

— Charles Baudelaire, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “A Voyage to Cythera,”

[gravmull]

“Ghosts sit in my mouth and sing.”

— Jeannine Hall Gailey, from ‘She Returns to the Floating World’ (via aegeane)