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I realize after his touch he would know me years from now, even in the dark, even without my skin.

Phil Memmer, “The Paleontologist’s Blind Date,” from Threat of Pleasure. (via ravennastark)

Oh, to be ravaged by loneliness. By its soft, malleable teeth. A slow death. A slow ravaging. More like being pulled apart than eaten. You used to beg God for this at night, used to beg him to make you small enough to get picked up in something’s mouth and then swallowed. You used to bend your shadow into something worth slicing through, into something that deserved to be pried open. What you didn’t know was that nothing that wanted you had claws.

Caitlyn Siehl, “Nothing That Wanted You” (via alonesomes)

#caitlyn siehl

lifeinpoetry

you said the word my followed by skin you felt nearest and furthest from

me.

— Vivek Shraya, from “two / childhood,” even this page is white

#vivek shraya

violentwavesofemotion-deactivat

I’m not going to see anybody anymore. They make me talk and exhaust me. If I’m quiet I’ll be alright.

Katherine Mansfield, from a letter to Virginia Woolf written c. February 1913 (via violentwavesofemotion)

#katherine mansfield

starredsoul

emily palermo || at 4:30 on a thursday, i stop trying to write a metaphor.

#emily palermo

hreshtak-archive-deactivated201

if you’re a minor and looking for a job, please talk to a trusted adult that can help you!!!!!!!!! please please please don’t believe the flyers you see on the street because you dont know who put them there or whether or not it’s the truth. especially when it says things like “bring your friends”

kiralovessloths

It’s 2017! No legitimate job advertises with flyers anymore! If you can’t find info about it online then it isn’t real! Please please google the position and if there’s no identifying info for you to google then you already have your answer!

#non poetry

endless-unfolding

I know that hope is the hardest love we carry.

Jane Hirshfield, from “Hope and Love,” in The Lives of the Heart (via illuminosity)

#jane hirshfield

watchoutforintellect

How to speak? How to tear apart the skin of words?

Czeslaw Milosz, from “The Wormwood Star” featured in The Separate Notebooks (via watchoutforintellect)

#czeslaw milosz

dukeofbookingham-deactivated202

*curtsies* Hi Duke, I was just thinking about a problem I have that I think is one of the hurdles to me starting anything. I'm afraid to finish and get it published because I'm afraid I'll run out of ideas or all of my ideas are too similar. Like, I only like a certain number of time periods to write about and I feel like my plots I enjoy are too similar for one author to ever publish. Any advice you can think of?

*Curtsies* Well, I think you have to take a step a back and look at it logically: It’s a little silly to worry about what might or might not happen in your publishing future when you haven’t even written your first manuscript yet. Most first manuscripts won’t be ready for an agent anyway. You may have to write five or six novels (I did) before you have anything that’s remotely worth an agent’s time. And here’s the thing about writing: the more you do it, the better you get at it, and that includes finding and pruning ideas. A lot of my early stuff was derivative at best. Ten years later I’ve just finished the first draft of an MS that I can honestly say is different from anything I’ve ever read. (Like, I’m not even sure what comp titles would be.) And if you had asked me ten years ago when I started writing if I ever would have been working on like a 1970s road trip novel or a Southern Gothic/Greek tragedy crossover novella, or absurdist spec fic about insomnia, or any of the other things I’ve come up with, I would have looked at you like you were insane, because at the time I pretty much only had like five variations of the same idea.

This is a long way of saying: You’re putting the cart way before the horse. You’re crossing a bridge before you get to it. There are a million obstacles between where you are right now and the potential problem you’re talking about, and there’s no way to know if you’ll ever actually have that problem unless you actually start writing.

So. My advice would be: Don’t worry about this. Worry about what you’re writing right now, because if you can’t give that your full attention, nothing will come of it at all.

#writing

dvoyd

real monsters are born of love. they crawled from the womb of something warm, something soft, something bright— with hearts vulnerable, naked, helpless and hopeful. the monster loved— that’s how it became monstrous.

love the predator, pity its prey | m.a.w (via dvoyd)

#m. a. w

diablocodys

men who play god will die like one. a myth barely remembered and their names but a whisper.

they will burn and burn and burn and then they will be nothing and the world will continue to turn // a.m (via ginnys)

//dialogue

& have you ever just wanted to be so many people at once? the me with cold-tile feet searching for mirabilia; the me with persistence, the me who doesn’t know when to stop, and doesn’t want to; the me with acrylic paint staining my old T-shirts, about to take a sip of paintbrush water; the me on an airplane, deliquescing in airbrush moonlight, living in a suitcase, perpetually jet lagged; the me soaked in machine oil, breathing in aluminum dust ‘til my lungs turn silver; the me neck-deep in textbooks, eyes chimerical with curiosity, brimming with lightbulb fantasies; the me unconcerned, unwavering, high-spirited, and free.

#unknown

jupiterreed

It is a night heaving with stars, ambulance flickers in your eyes, all the red we dream of, all the red we conceal. Dripping out through the warped ceiling, bleeding down the bark of murdered trees. Your love lingers in the room like a corpse like a sigh, and I curl up like a crescent moon, relieve my hands of this shame by stitching them to your neck. Now the shadows render us like fairytale beasts and little red riding hood is in the kitchen rearranging knives for teeth and I blossom with peculiarities. I am the percussion of a poisoned ghost, roaming these wayward streets in her sallow night gown, her sorrow a sacred dome enwreathed like a garden hedge around her. I am a nightbloomer in flames and all the chaos reconciles me the way the rain hushes the earth, the way you grasp for grapes in candle lit rooms ablaze with your name. Sometimes I don’t feel human. Sometimes I don’t feel like I belong. The world as a violin that isn’t attuned to me, the world as the actor who plays my enemy. Listen, I’ve heard of flowers burned into bridges, hearts like funeral homes that will store all your skeletons for safekeeping. I’ve heard of wolves with kind eyes and seas that speak, but these are stories of ghouls and gods, marring my skin with their speared tongues, whirling sleep. I miss who you were in the summer, fissures in your bones and fault lines in your chest, a voice like scripture and paintings of bees hung on your walls. I miss sleeping with you - playing the perpetrator of all your animal urges, how you faltered knees and rotted apples. The kisses that had me hanging by the edge of evanescence, the kisses that usurped a throne against a shameful sky and prepared a legion of rosedrunk martyrs to die in your stead. Your charred heart a black beach that we all live in, your words like halos in the sparkling autumn air, unforgiving as death and just as beautiful. You, the tsunami, you the bullet, you the shattered axis at the tipping point of my rabid world. We are winged creatures, osculatory blips on the crow’s nest of entropy, carnage in the caustic crumbs we leave behind, song sheets in our sternums. We whisper now of old worlds and spirit wine, of galaxies that fall for the twist of a woman’s hip, of cities burning for less than love. Of all the tragedies that were and all the tragedies that will be. Of the tragedy that is your soul, that in hindsight, is mine. Finally, I turn to you, blood brimming from my lips and desire spoiling my lungs. Find me in the ruins, in weeping poetry, in a meteor shower at the end of the world.

And What of The Greeks? || j.r (via jupiterreed)

#j.r

fermentingferns

To be born in October is to be an expert in draining yourself, and falling. It is to drip from the sky like honey-thick rain; to make your cold home in the sharp wind, and to catch your breath when it bites your soft cheeks. Being born in October is to exist as a testament to the beauty of a thing that is dying. It is to remind the world that we are All things that are dying. Being born in October is to be a shock to every one of the senses. It is to induce a shivering that spreads to the bones; to be made of warm colours in a place that is steadily growing colder.

-lynnea // purpose of your birth date

#lynnea

poemsforpersephone

persephone chose autumn, shunned spring sun and winter weather together in the same breath, stole leaves from trees with careless honey dipped hands. she chose the night sky. danced with stars instead of flowers and found life in a different kind of shadow. she considered her options. picked apple over pomegranate and followed the footsteps eve carved out into sandstone and river rock as she made her way down from the garden, this, another choice, a different kind of forbidden fruit but the same kind of falling; from a pedestal someone else sat her on, one she never claimed for herself.

#l.s.

compllexes

i. they called me ashen, like the sky during the end of the world, like the moon during war

ii. they called me broken, like the shattering of kindness, the silence of the night, like my mother

iii. they called me starlight, like i was aquarius in the freckles of bruised purple, like i knew what making a wish meant, like tomorrow wasn’t going to be enough for me anymore

iv. they called me goodbye, because i liked to leave but hated to be left, and they said you could only be one or the other, but i was both

v. they called me outcast, they knew i didn’t belong here and i never did, and there’s no place in the stars for me, no people i could make my home on the ground

vi. they called me miracle, the only me who ever was, and i guess i agreed with that, but if all were lost, at least you’d still have yourself; i would only have my thoughts

vii. they called me darkness, living in my own shadow and forgiving my demons, but who knew they would be the ones who understood me, and not the angels

— what they called me || r.w

#r.w

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