[lifeinpoetry]

I crashed upon your shore. A sea I have no name for. Now even the sunrise cracking open the desert becomes only a dream of you.

— Jennifer Elise Foerster, from “Tracing Magdalena,” Leaving Tulsa

[dykedoll8008]

[lifeinpoetry]

I build barricades in front of my desire, I halt my ruddy poethics. // I cough with hunger for you.

— Rosie Stockton, from "PUMPJACK," Fuel

[griefasagarden]

The blood comes and comes; I spend all night in the tub, water running. It pours from me: gush of child undone. Black.

— leila chatti, night ghazal, deluge

[guooey]

Patrick Ness, More Than This

[primulaceas]

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

[lifeinpoetry]

In wanting you, all becomes you.

— Rosie Stockton, from "CARMEN ET ERROR," Fuel

[babushkaat]

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Juliet dans Paris (Claude Miller, 1967)

[unusual-suspects]

julia soboleva

[anditslove]

Clementine von Radics, Mouthful of Forevers

[rendingrocks]

The Impossible, Georges Bataille

[funeral]

Finally, when shame has been completely internalized, nothing about you is okay. You feel flawed and inferior; you have the sense of being a failure. There is no way you can share your inner self because you are an object of contempt to yourself. When you are contemptible to yourself, you are no longer in you. To feel shame is to feel seen in an exposed and diminished way. When you're an object to yourself, you turn your eyes inward, watching and scrutinizing every minute detail of behavior. This internal critical observation is excruciating. It generates a tormenting self-consciousness which Kaufman describes as, "creating a binding and paralyzing effect upon the self." This paralyzing internal monitoring causes withdrawal, passivity and inaction.

John Bradshaw, Healing the Shame that Binds You

[babystingray]

I found a newborn kitten alone in a shallow puddle of water barely alive, I got it warm and fed it a tiny bit of KMR but it passed away I can’t stop crying

[funeral]

The great sufferers are never bored: disease fills them, the way remorse feeds the great criminals. For any intense suffering produces a simulacrum of plenitude and proposes a terrible reality to consciousness, which it cannot elude; while suffering without substance in that temporal mourning of ennui affords consciousness nothing that forces it to fruitful action. How to cure an unlocalized and supremely impalpable disease which infects the body without leaving any trace upon it, which insinuates itself into the soul without marking it by any sign? Ennui is like a sickness we have survived, but one which has absorbed our possibilities, our reserves of attention and has left us impotent to fill the void which follows upon the disappearance of our pangs and the fading of our torments. Hell is a haven next to this displacement in time, this empty and prostrate languor in which nothing stops us but the spectacle of the universe decaying before our eyes.

Emil Cioran, A Short History of Decay

[dailycatsblog]

[lifeinpoetry]

My heart contained his voice and followed me, like a bird crying

— Kim Hyesoon, from "The Ringing of That Day," The Hell of That Star, tr. Cindy Juyoung Ok