Musings of a romantic mind

Everything I post on here is a representation of how I feel, emotions of the moment. I do not own any of the photos, they are just lovely things I've come across. all reblogs will not be edited.

[persephonesecretlair]

i’m definitely the girlfriend that rubs your back under your shirt in public just because i miss the feel of your skin

[acutelesbian]

A lot of people ask me what my biggest fear is, or what scares me most. And I know they expect an answer like heights, or closed spaces, or people dressed like animals, but how do I tell them that when I was 17 I took a class called Relationships For Life and I learned that most people fall out of love for the same reasons they fell in it. That their lover’s once endearing stubbornness has now become refusal to compromise and their one track mind is now immaturity and their bad habits that you once adored is now money down the drain. Their spontaneity becomes reckless and irresponsible and their feet up on your dash is no longer sexy, just another distraction in your busy life. Nothing saddens and scares me like the thought that I can become ugly to someone who once thought all the stars were in my eyes.

[fat-thin-skinny]

this fucks me up every single time

[acutelesbian]

I never expected this to be my most popular poem out of the hundreds I’ve written. I was extremely bitter and sad when I wrote this and I left out the most beautiful part of that class.

After my teacher introduced us to this theory, she asked us, “is love a feeling? Or is it a choice?” We were all a bunch of teenagers. Naturally we said it was a feeling. She said that if we clung to that belief, we’d never have a lasting relationship of any sort.

She made us interview a dozen adults who were or had been married and we asked them about their marriages and why it lasted or why it failed. At the end, I asked every single person if love was an emotion or a choice.

Everybody said that it was a choice. It was a conscious commitment. It was something you choose to make work every day with a person who has chosen the same thing. They all said that at one point in their marriage, the “feeling of love” had vanished or faded and they weren’t happy. They said feelings are always changing and you cannot build something that will last on such a shaky foundation.

The married ones said that when things were bad, they chose to open the communication, chose to identify what broke and how to fix it, and chose to recreate something worth falling in love with.

The divorced ones said they chose to walk away.

Ever since that class, since that project, I never looked at relationships the same way. I understood why arranged marriages were successful. I discovered the difference in feelings and commitments. I’ve never gone for the person who makes my heart flutter or my head spin. I’ve chosen the people who were committed to choosing me, dedicated to finding something to adore even on the ugliest days.

I no longer fear the day someone who swore I was their universe can no longer see the stars in my eyes as long as they still choose to look until they find them again.

[conceitedtrash]

This is so fucking important and I think it’s something I needed right now

[purplebuddhaproject]

http://ift.tt/1XI0MzW

[her-minds-a-mess]

Please be clingy with me. Intertwine your fingers into mine when we’re out in public, show me off to all your friends, kiss me in front of girls that make me jealous, remind me of your love every moment you get. When I’m away, talk to your friends about me. About my laugh, about how you think I might be the one, about how you’ve never felt so incredibly invested into a person before. And finally, at night, let me be the last thought you have before you fall asleep. I feel like I’m always the one who cares the most, I just want someone to care for me just as deeply for once.

Excerpt of a book I’ll never write #62 (via her-minds-a-mess)

[beentough-butstillcheering-youon]

You’re not allowed to put beautiful words into my head and not mean it. You’re not allowed to love me at sunset and be gone by sunrise. You’re not allowed to tell me you love me and then never talk to me again. And you’re sure as hell not allowed to make me believe this is real and then just leave.

But I allowed you. (via beentough-butstillcheering-youon)

[smoke-stungeyes]

Do you ever wonder how much you exist in other people’s lives? I’m always curious if people think of me when a certain song comes on, or when they pass through a certain town. I wonder how many stories I’ve been a part of that I may have forgotten. I wonder if I still I exist in the minds of people that I don’t speak to anymore. I wonder how many times a day I pass through someone’s head.

[pardonmewhileipanic]

Some Interesting Thoughts On Public Marriage Proposals

I just read this great article about public proposals and how they can actually come off more coercive than romantic

I think a flashy public proposal can be fun if both parties want something like that, and both people have already discussed a desire to be married to one another, but without that consent before a public display, it can be really scary instead of romantic. 

“There is a saying that often comes up when we speak of consent: “If you can’t say no, you can’t say yes”. It’s a sentiment that is true in any human interaction, and for me rings terrifyingly true for our fascination with public proposals.

If your partner is put in a position where they can’t really say no, it means that they can’t confidently say yes, either. Confidence is the kind of thing you want when you’re asking someone to swear before God that they will never, ever leave you.”

Also I find this next quote really important. Because if you do want to be married one day, it’s important to remember that it’s not all about huge romantic gestures all the time. 

“Marriage isn’t the wedding, and it isn’t the honeymoon. It’s the hundredth visit to your in-laws, the thousandth Wednesday evening making grilled cheese sandwiches. A marriage is made of averages, not grandiose displays of love. When I say yes to a marriage, I want it to be because I can see all that averageness and it still looks good, not because I’m on fire with the thrill of a one-time production… or worse, can’t turn you down without near fatal awkwardness.

And if you’re the one asking, you should want someone who is saying yes to you, not to the show you’ve suddenly made them the unwilling star of.” 

Source

[eveningloon-blog]

they come home rumpled and frayed hair full of fingers from the night before back of the neck and hair dried with sweat hours of sex all over their souls we look up and all know I cock an eyebrow "Did he make you coffee in the morning?" the good ones own a silver espresso maker they don't cheap out buy the ground beans you can tell in the colour too If it's watery a big brand name jug of cheap shit or whole beans reeking bitterly the really good ones don't need to ask they just open one eye kiss the nape of your neck and say "I'll make the coffee" they know you take two creams one sugar and they walk you home after the coffee proud to hold your hand and let the world know they loved you all night

[yearsofmagicalthinking]

Intuition: I tried to make a home out of you but doors lead to trap doors, a stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when you go quiet? You remind me of my father, a magician… able to exist in two places at once. In the tradition of men in my blood, you come home at 3 a.m. and lie to me. What are you hiding? The past and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a f*cking curse. Denial: I tried to change, closed my mouth more, tried to be soft, prettier, less awake. Fasted for 60 days, wore white, abstained from mirrors, abstained from sex, slowly did not speak another word. In that time my hair, I grew past my ankles. I slept on a mat on the floor. I swallowed a sword. I levitated. Went to the basement, confessed my sins, and was baptized in a river. I got on my knees and said amen and said I mean. I whipped my own back and asked for dominion at your feet. I threw myself into a volcano. I drank the blood and drank the wine. I sat alone and begged and bent at the waist for God. I crossed myself and thought I saw the devil. I grew thickened skin on my feet I bathed in bleach and plugged my menses with pages from the holy book, but still inside me, coiled deep, was the need to know… are you cheating on me? Cheating? Are you cheating on me? Anger: If it’s what you truly want… I can wear her skin over mine. Her hair over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph all three of us. Immortalized… you and your perfect girl. I don’t know when love became elusive. What I know is, no one I know has it. My father’s arms around my mother’s neck, fruit too ripe to eat. I think of lovers as trees… growing to and from one another. Searching for the same light. Why can’t you see me? Why can’t you see me? Why can’t you see me? Everyone else can. Apathy: So, what are you gonna say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me? Here lies the body of love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children, both living and dead. Rest in peace, my true love, who I took for granted. Most bomb p*ssy who, because of me, sleep evaded. Her god listening. Her heaven will be a love without betrayal. Ashes to ashes, dust to side chicks. Emptiness: She sleeps all day. Dreams of you in both worlds. Tills the blood, in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc, grief sedated by orgasm, orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, “I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me. Pull me in, pull me in, pull me in.” Sometimes when he’d have her nipple in his mouth, she’d whisper, “Oh, my God.” That, too, is a form of worship. Her hips grind, pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves. Whenever he pulls out… loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floods… for the flush of blood… for men who are also wolves. We blame for the night, for the dark, for the ghosts. Loss: Every fear… every nightmare… anyone has ever had. Accountability: You find the black tube inside her beauty case where she keeps your father’s old prison letters. You desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. Film star beauty. How to wear your mother’s lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply your mother’s lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you. You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman and women like her can not be contained. Mother dearest, let me inherit the earth. Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a god? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his head? Am I talking about your husband or your father? Reformation: He bathes me until I forget their names and faces. I ask him to look me in the eye when I come home. Why do you deny yourself heaven? Why do you consider yourself undeserving? Why are you afraid of love? You think it’s not possible for someone like you. But you are the love of my life. You are the love of my life. You are the love of my life. Forgiveness: Baptize me… now that reconciliation is possible. If we’re gonna heal, let it be glorious. 1,000 girls raise their arms. Do you remember being born? Are you thankful for the hips that cracked? The deep velvet of your mother and her mother and her mother? There is a curse that will be broken. Resurrection: Something is missing. So many young women, they tell you, “I want me a hu — see, all them make me feel better than you.” So how we supposed to lead our children to the future? What do we do? How do we lead them? Love. L-O-V-E, love. Mm-mmm-mmm. Hallelujah, thank you, Jesus. I just love the Lord, I’m sorry, brother. I love the Lord, that’s all I got. When your back gets against the wall and your wall against your back, who you call? Hey! Who you call? Who you call? You gotta call Him. You gotta call Jesus. You gotta call Him. You gotta call Him ‘cause you ain’t got another hope. You are terrifying… and strange and beautiful. Magic. Hope: The nail technician pushed my cuticles back… turns my hand over, stretches the skin on my palm and says, “I see your daughters and their daughters.” That night in a dream, the first girl emerges from a slit in my stomach. The scar heals into a smile. The man I love pulls the stitches out with his fingernails. We leave black sutures curling on the side of the bath. I wake as the second girl crawls head first up my throat, a flower, blossoming out of the hole in my face. Redemption: Take one pint of water, add a half pound of sugar, the juice of eight lemons, the zest of half a lemon. Pour the water from one jug then into the other several times. Strain through a clean napkin. Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter. I had my ups and downs, but I always find the inner strength to pull myself up. I was served lemons, but I made lemonade. My grandma said “Nothing real can be threatened.” True love brought salvation back into me. With every tear came redemption and my torturers became my remedy. So we’re gonna heal. We’re gonna start again. You’ve brought the orchestra, synchronized swimmers. You’re the magician. Pull me back together again, the way you cut me in half. Make the woman in doubt disappear. Pull the sorrow from between my legs like silk. Knot after knot after knot. The audience applauds… but we can’t hear them.

by Warsan Shire for Beyonce’s Lemonade album  (via desertgoth)

[childmagazine]

There are people who dislike you because you do not dislike yourself.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (via childmagazine)

[eveningloon-blog]

[allwereallyneedisweed]

There are days that I cannot find the sun even though its right outside my goddamn window.

Neil Hilborn, “This is Not the End of the World” (via allwereallyneedisweed)

[lifeinpoetry]

—I know I have a heart like a wild thing with snapping jaws and matted fur but I’d hang up my hands on hooks for you, pluck out all of my sharp teeth for the chance to be easy.

Trista Mateer, from “How I Asked You to Stay,” Honeybee (via boydisease1992)

[theijeoma-deactivated20180827]

they are afraid a woman can be this free. this soft. this strong. this color.

Ijeoma Umebinyuo (via theijeoma)

[eveningloon-blog]

[eveningloon-blog]

[eveningloon-blog]