This Is She

Curiouser and curiouser.

[love]

this fucked me up

[lifeinpoetry]

“/ still i dream myself bloodied / my body swallowed / my body grass-stained & longing for the treeline / to reveal something green / a savior / something growing / whole, inside me / what happens to the shape of the girl / she’s eighteen / long-limbed & oaring across a cumberland lake / my body, the quiet grave / it’s the difference between drowning & burning”

— Maggie Woodward, from “In the Witch Elm,” published in TYPO

[teaganwhite]

Thanks to everyone who has bought prints this week and helped spread the word – you helped take my mind off all the grim news by showing your enthusiasm for all of these causes, and I really appreciate it. I’m ending the week with a release of three original drawings, with $100 from each sale donated to the Committee to Protect Journalists. They’ll go on sale Saturday at Noon CST over at teaganwhite.bigcartel.com

[crossconnectmag]

The Art of David O’Meara

David O’Meara is an artist based in London, who work primarily in digital.

In terms of my digital work, I enjoy creating scenes that bring about a sense of foreign nostalgia. Places you know you’ve never been but feel like you have. The atmosphere plays an important role in creating this, so it’s always been a priority. I try to create pieces that are ‘moody’ and emotive. Using exaggerated colors with bold contrast to do so. A lot of my scenes are portrayed at dawn or dusk, without necessarily specifying which one. Some might see it as an ending where others might see it as the beginning. I like leaving them open to absorb as many narratives as they can. I set the scene, it’s up to others to fill it. Things are always more interesting that way. H/T

Meet us on Facebook and Instagram

posted by Margaret from tu recepcja

[overthink]

damontosa

[infected]

by jorgitoacj

[heavensghost]

[howtogetawaywithpaint-deactivat]

[ghostonawire]

You are going to fall so hard for him. He’s going to tell you he loves you, and he may even mean it. But believe me when I tell you that he doesn’t know a goddamn thing. He’ll let you introduce him to the sky. He will step into your world in places that no one else ever has. He will kiss you like it means something, because, for the first time, it does. He will convince you that he’s going to marry you someday, that he wants to sing your song for the rest of his life. Until, one day.  He will wake up and decide your lack of a personality just isn’t doing it for him anymore. That you don’t let yourself have enough fun. He will tear down your character more passionately than he ever tore off your clothes. He will help you realize that you’re not worth shit, and you will wonder, were you ever? He will fall in love with someone new. You will make love to his ghost until you can no longer hear the sound of his voice, until you can no longer hear yourself screaming.

Nine Months and Three Hundred Miles Later

[swamminsam-blog]

Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder

Dear you, Whoever you are,
However you got here, This is exactly where you are supposed to be.

This moment has waited it’s whole life for you, This moment is your lover, And you are a solider, Come home baby its over, You don’t need to suffer anymore.

Dear you, This moment is a surprise party, You are both hiding in the dark and walking through the door, This moment is a Hallelujah, This moment is your permission slip, To finally open that love letter you’ve been hiding from yourself, The one you wrote when you were little, When you still danced like a sparkler at dusk, Do you remember the moment you realised they were watching, When you became ashamed of how much light you were holding, When you first learned how to un-love yourself.

Dear you, The word today, means amen is every language. Today, we made it, Today, I’m gonna love you, Today, the box cutter will rust in the garbage, Today, the noose will forget how to hold you, Today, Today.

Dear you, And I have always meant, you. Nothing would be the same if you did not exist.

You, who were once as small as bouquet, Who could sleep in the laughs of strangers, Nothing would be the same if you did not exist.

You, who’s voice is someones favourite voice, Someones favourite face to wake up to, Nothing would be the same if you did not exist.

You, the teacher, The starters gun, The lantern in the night who offers not a way home but the courage to travel farther into the dark.

You, the lover, who worships the taste of her body, Who is the largest tree ring in his heart, Who does not let fear ration your love.

You, the friend, The sacred chorus of ‘How can I help you?’. Who have felt more numb than holy, More cracked than mosaic, Who has known the tiles of a bathroom by heart, Who has forgotten what makes you worth it.

You, the forgiven, The forgiver, Who belongs right here, in this moment.

You, this clump of cells, This happy explosion that happened to start breathing, And by the grace of whatever is up there, You got here, You made it, this whole way, Through the nights that swallowed you whole, The mornings that arrived in pieces, The scabs, The gravel, The doubt, The hurt, The hurt, The hurt, Is over today, You made it, You made it, You made it, Here.

By sierrademulder

http://youtu.be/lV-gqLaipW4

[victoriajoan]

Today I heard my heart screeching like a subway train loudly enough to remind me it was still human loudly enough to hurt

Audre Lorde, from Coal

[eatsleepdraw]

Rainy Days 

By Serina Kitazono

Tumblr

Instagram

[pigmenting]

I’ve hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath.

Sierra DeMulder, from “Your Love Finds Its Way Back” in Today Means Amen

[gllry-blog-blog]

[mehreenkasana]

What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look though your young eyes, or look at your young self? Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent, or that there are people with more talent? Do you walk on moving walkways?

Should it make any difference that you knew it was wrong as you were doing it? Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter? Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone? How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month of your life? What would you tell your father, if it were possible? Which is changing faster, your body, or your mind? Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis?

Are you in any way angry at your phone? When you pass a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, look at your reflection, or neither? Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it? If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make you any small bit happier, would you still want more money? What has been irrevocably spoiled for you?

If your deepest secret became public, would you be forgiven? Is your best friend your kindest friend? Is it any way cruel to give a dog a name? Is there anything you feel a need to confess? You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again? What is it about death that you’re afraid of? How does it make you feel to know that it’s an “unkindness of ravens”?“

 Jonathan Safran Foer, Two-Minute Personality Test

[whereareyoupress]

Poet as cannonball. Poet as betrayal, betrayed. Poet as love, verb and noun. Poet as unbridled. Poet as three slashed tires. Poet as five angry voicemails. Poet as desperation. Poet as I-love-you- but. Poet as entropy. Poet as sledgehammer. Poet as target and weapon. Poet as overflowing toilet. Poet as question and answer. Poet as echoed tears in an empty house. Poet as giver. Poet as dichotomy. Poet as perennial mess. Poet as burned-at-own-stake. Poet as canvas and brush. Poet as borderland. Poet as slurred speech. Poet as fear embodied. Poet as tying-up-loose-ends. Poet as fire. Poet as fire. Poet as fire. Poet as binge. Poet as paper cut. Poet as playing God. Poet as recurring nightmare. Poet as churning stomach.  Poet as rancid love. Poet as sepia tone. Poet as epiphany. Poet as we’re-all-mad-here. Poet as crossed-out lines. Poet as proliferation. Poet as breaking out full speed. Poet as animal, vegetable, mineral. Poet as person, place, thing. Poet as anthropologist, archaeologist. Poet as beginning, middle, end. Poet as resurrection. Poet as karma. Poet as new world. Poet as complement, not compliment. Poet as quilter. Poet as vigilante. Poet as lifeboat. Poet as truth. Poet as truth.

Ars Poetica, Irene Vazquez

[darksilenceinsuburbia]

Constantinos Chaidalis

Hunting Season