ἀναιμόσαρκος,‏‏‎ ‎

𝖕𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖗        𝖎𝖘,        𝖔𝖋        𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊,        𝖛𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖈.                [ . . . ]        𝖆        𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑        𝖌𝖔𝖔𝖉.                𝘢      𝘷𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦:      𝘵𝘩𝘦      𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦      𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦.

[enfranchisement]

via angelind1sguise on instagram

[on-poetry]

I remember life. There was so much. I held it all. I held it all.

Michelle Hulan, “The Universe, as in One Last Song for the Lonely Hearts”, Chestnut Review

[loveliesttime]

where's that quote abt like. being embarrassed abt the thinness of ur life the way ur embarrassed by a threadbare piece of clothing. bc like yeah

[loveliesttime]

Olivia Laing

[escuerzoresucitado]

[wuntrum]

im neither an alive girl nor a dead girl but rather a secret third thing

[frequency-7]

memorabilia zine, 2021 (page 14)

My cross necklace collection for a page of a zine I made in December. It’s not even all of them ♱

[neoyorzapoteca]

Couplets by Maggie Millner

[geryone]

The Sorrow Festival, Erin Slaughter

[lifeinpoetry]

Girls That Never Die

a girl embroidered

a girl teeth bared  locked inside a photograph

a girl dances to the same coiled song    can never leave

keeps her looks       outlives the other guests

filled up with all her teeth    never returns from the party

is never heard from again    is everywhere

Forgotten But Not Gone      

cries into your drink & returns it to you

makes you say her name   salt in the well kills the whole village

— Safia Elhillo, from Girls That Never Die

[electramouthed]

 Sokrates’ central argument, as he goes on to reevaluate madness, is that you keep your mind to yourself at the cost of closing out the gods. Truly good and indeed divine things are alive and active outside you and should be let in to work their changes. Such incursions formally instruct and enrich our lives in society; no prophet or healer or poet could practice his art if he did not lose his mind, Sokrates says (244a-45). Madness is the instrument of such intelligence. More to the point, erotic mania is a valuable thing in private life. It puts wings on your soul.

Anne Carson, from Eros the Bittersweet

[fawnaura]

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962

[electramouthed]

 here, under london’s streetlights, you will realise nobody actually wants a savage girl. ferocious girl. i’ve only seen this wanted in a poem constructed with perfect html, obscure synonyms and times new roman. the last time somebody actually looked into your eyes was a tuesday two months ago. accidentally. on public transport. you’d think it was the last time you made love. but no. you were too busy staring at the ceiling and he was too busy breathing into your neck. when you’re done he tells you how smooth you are “not a single sharp edge,” he says, and you dig your nails into your palms.

Salma Deera, from Letters from Medea

[aridante]

electra, sophocles (trans. anne carson) // enough, suzanne buffman // letter to my rage: an evolution, lidia yuknavitch // the ghost is dead, long live the ghost, mara avoth // the importance of being earnest, oscar wilde // i didn’t always salivate over skeletons, blythe baird // persephone the wanderer (ii), louise glück // sharp objects, gillian flynn // the carnivorous lamb, agustín gómez-arcos (trans. william rodarmor) // how to wear your mother’s lipstick, warsan shire.

[steveyockey]

let the soft animal of your body KILL KILL ATTACK KILL WITH YOUR TEETH RIP IT WITH YOUR TEETH YOUR TEETH

[skovenshemmeligheder]

All Quiet On The Frontal Lobe

[lifeinpoetry]

What I’ve let men scavenge — my collarbones, femurs, the fleshy pads of my inner thighs, bitemarks butterflying from the clotted cream that cornmeal death has made of my skin — given way to blood poisoning.

— Jennifer Givhan, from "The Excavation," Belly to the Brutal

[weltenwellen]

Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, Rien ne va plus