Adrasteia

“Something lingers in the air; Becoming stale. A rusted book bound of leather, In dimly lit bar. Quills and tobacco smoke, The rot of death from inside.”

[exceptadrasteia]

Something lingers in the air;

Becoming stale.

A rusted book bound of leather,

In dimly lit bar.

Quills and tobacco smoke,

The rot of death from inside.

[exceptadrasteia]

I love you like a cigarette.

A craving I should stomp out before it kills me.

Slowly, it already is.

I know what tobacco tastes like on my tongue;

It is bitter, strong and disgusting.

Even poison pales in comparison of you.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— virginia woolf , carlyle's house and other sketches (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[threewordusername]

the monster became a poet IX: especially her

[oldwinesoul]

[letmebethecure]

I realized today

What I’ve been waiting for

For someone to verbalize

That they were wrong for hurting me

For someone to say

That they can’t bear to lose me

For someone to fight

The way I have always fought

For someone to love me

Even though I have not

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— natalie díaz, from “american arithmetic”, postcolonial love poem (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[beforeyearning]

[mournfulroses]

Lidia Yuknavitch, from Reading the Waves: A Memoir published in 2025

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— unknown (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[bitesizedpoetry]

Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late.

Ivan Turgenev, Rudin

[exceptadrasteia]

His ghost haunts the husk of his cold body, like a puppet. Strings that not even I can see manoeuvring him to a beat I cannot hear. He dances, and no one can stop him.

A step to the left, precision in every aching muscle.

Arm poised, hand holding an invisible partner, yet there is nothing to grasp.

What he could have been, if his life wasn't so horrible from the start, if his blood wasn't cursed generations beyond his time.

Fingers drop,

A corpse reanimated.

Fingernails bloody and chipped, dirt stuck underneath. Delicate pale, cold arms soiled with greed and desperation.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— jessica therese, from ‘a different kind of heartbreak’ (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[exceptadrasteia]

If I had —

Laid my skin bare

Just for you

Would you have deigned

To give back

The love I so selflessly –

Stupidly –

Gave.

[nixscriptum]

[prophetic-memory]

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

[soracities]

Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Pleasures (trans. Stefan Tobler) [ID'd]