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g e e z e - o h - p e t e! | dreamer my most exceptional talent is having no talenti reblog a lot of anime and stuff

[living-in-a-state-in-between]

[the-rogue-avocado-deactivated20]

@gilgamushy 

[gilgamushy]

no, we don’t.

[i-may-have-punched-him]

Visit Original Link

This song is brilliant

[neverletthemstealyourjoy-deacti]

I’m crying holy moly like I didn’t love Angelica enough as it was

[sufjansontag]

i am zo much ‘appier now zat i’m dead. technically meessing. zoon to be presumed dead. gone. and my lazy, lying sheeting obleevious ‘usband vill go to preeson for my murder. donald trump took my pride and my deegnity and my ‘ope and my money. ‘e took and took from me until i no longer exeested. zat’s murder. let ze punishment fit ze crime. donald vill die. donald and melania vill be gone, but zen, ve never really exeested. donald loved a girl i vas pretending to be. “cool girl.” men alvays use zat, don’t zey? as zeir defining compliment? “she’s a cool girl.” cool girl ees ‘ot. cool girl ees game. cool girl ees fun. cool girl never gets angry at ‘er man. when i met donald trump, i knew ‘e wanted “cool girl.” and for ‘im, i’ll admit: i vas villing to try. i wax-streeped my pussy raw. i drank canned beer, vatching adam sandler movies. i ate cold pizza and remained a zize two. i blew ‘im, zemi-regularly. i lived in ze moment. i vas vucking game. i can’t zay i deedn’t enjoy zome of it. donald teased out in me zings i deedn’t know exeested. a lightness. a ‘umor. an ease. but i made ‘im smarter. sharper. i inspired ‘im to rise to my level. i forged ze man of my dreams. ve vere ‘appy pretending to be ozer people. ve vere the ‘appiest couple ve knew. and vat’s ze point of being togezzer if you are not ze ‘appiest? but donald got lazy. ‘e became someone i deed not agree to marry. ‘e actually expected me to love him uncondeetionally. zen ‘e dragged me, penniless, to ze vite house. you zink i’d let him destroy me and end up ‘appier zan ever? no vucking vay. ‘e doesn’t get to ween. my cute, charming, zalt-of-ze-earz upper east side guy. ‘e needed to learn. grown-ups vork for zings. grown-ups pay. grown-ups zuffer consequences.

[sakurauchis]

                              » Howl’s Moving Castle (2004) 

[hentired]

Bada bing

[aorticarchnemesis]

Babadook

[rosedosed]

[madameber]

have my colours stained your lips? can you still taste me in pastel traces of fingerprints that ring your neck, a collar to restrain you from painting over another girl with your corrupt palette.

pastel pinks by madameber (via madameber)

[madameber]

circle scars and you circle scars all along the lengths of your arms black where red once did the trick got enough to take your pick crisscross patterns round your wrists there’s no patch of skin been missed said you’d stop so now you take a pen instead of razor blade cigarette stays in your lips safer than your fingertips but inside out you’re still the same circle scars and you circle

geometrics by madameber (via madameber)

[madameber]

you said i was exotic, and i said ooo what do you mean?, like exotic like a fruit?, like i don’t know what tropics you think i came from, was imported from, but you read my skin like the label on a flavour of coca-cola you had never been offered before and i was refreshing, and different. and you liked the way my coke-bottle curves felt beneath your fingertips, said you’d never tasted caramel like me before, you said i was exotic. like i was a work of west african art, even though my mother’s from the east, like i was from a storybook like 1001 african nights, like, you saw my cover and you were hooked, never did think to look beneath the jacket, just wanted stories like the ones scheherazade sold, i was your sheba and you my solomon. we rode lions across the sands, your kiss was salt on my lips, i needed to quench my thirst and you offered me the brand new flavour of coca-cola. you said i was exotic, like a pretty foreign thing, like just some thing, some mail-order thing, special delivery just for you, a flavour of coca-cola that you had never tasted before.

“Salted Caramel” by madameber (via madameber)

[madameber]

girls with pennies

mark us like sheep my fleece may be store-bought, washed clean of all identity but i’ve got a patchwork neck spotted and dotted with broken blood vessels and i’ve seen the girls with pennies scraping at their skin trying to get rid of him one stroke at a time (his lips were just as rough as the ridges of their coins) and i’ve heard the girls with pennies their marks may have faded but their pockets jingle with each step they take each move they make they say his tongue dripped gold and silver and bronze all over them but all he left was red mark us like cattle my ears may hold rings and not tags but i’ve got skin so fair you’d never dare believe that beneath i’m just another collection of broken blood vessels and he may be gone from the surface may be easy to remove but i still bleed (and the girls with pennies scrape at my neck one stroke at a time) mark me like property my body may be a temple but your prayers will not be heard here you say the girls don’t need their pennies we say you have no say in the way we heal our vessels may have been yours to break but they are not yours to mend and you can pretend you never knew what we went through when you decided to leave your signature on our skin but we promise when we look at you we only see red

[madameber]

where did i put that remote control?

i will not write a poem about love. it’s a tired subject, really, a matter with which i should have no concern, a channel on the telly which i flick right past since there’s usually something better on, something much more interesting. something that stings a lot less. who said anything about love, anyway? i will not write about her. her lips, her eyes, her nose, her mouth have long since faded from the screen and all that’s left is white noise, static cling, i could press my face against the glass, search for her features in the grains but no satellite could make this connection any clearer, there’s other stuff on television, anyway. i will not write about myself. this network encompasses more than just a single bed, cheap take-out boxes, empty bottles of wine; before this there was a time when the bed was made for two and i didn’t need the television on as i slept because her shallow breaths were the only lullaby necessary. if i wrote anything about myself i would have to write about her about us and go over every single episode we shared before she stopped returning. i’m tired of reruns, anyway. i will not write a poem about love. who said anything about love? there’s other stuff on television, and who likes reruns, anyway?

[madameber]

betray the sky

i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with icarus on the way he said, “hey, where are you going?” and fell before i could tell him. i said “icarus, there is a terrible beauty to this world,“ i said “icarus, i want it all to burn.” and he burned, crashed into the waves, his flames flickered and died. i swear i tried to catch the sun before he did but he stole it in his wings, betrayed the sky for a light brighter than his own, he was a shooting star that i couldn’t swallow. i said “hey, where are you going?” he told me to make a wish and fell. i swear i tried to catch the sun, collided with him on the way. i said “icarus, my world is beautiful, but terrible.” i said, “icarus, i want it all to burn.” our wings melted, and as the sky rained wax, we burned.

[madameber]

The Devil’s Music

Mari did not know the god her mother knew.

Her mother took great pride in her worship. She had decorated the walls of her home with masterful illustrations of her savior, adorned her neck with beads and crosses, memorized every prayer in the worn leather-bound book she kept by her pillow. Her mother was a walking temple; her words were laced with the Lord’s, and whenever she chastised her disbelieving daughter her voice rang with the authority of the god she so revered.

Her mother spoke of a loving god, a benevolent god, one who had cleansed her of all sin and had shown her the path to heaven. She had been young once, and foolish, but her god had forgiven her, and now she knew she was not meant to live for her own sake, but for his. Every evening, she would set an extra place at the dinner table, and when they said grace her eyes would travel fondly towards the empty chair, and she would smile.

Mari’s god was nothing like the god her mother knew.

He did not approve of the way she dressed, of the holes in her earlobes nor the ever-changing colors of her hair. He did not approve of the music she listened to, of the repetitive beats and sultry lyrics which reverberated from behind her closed bedroom door – “the devil’s music,” as her mother had so aptly labelled it.

Her mother would try to dissuade her from such influences by wrapping up old recordings of hymns and gospels in glittering paper and presenting them to her on special occasions: Christmas, New Years, her birthday, Tuesday dinners. They piled up in the corners of her room and watched in silence as she danced with the devil.

Mari’s god did not approve of the way she loved: in secret, in stolen glances from across streets, in sweet nothings scribbled in the margins of borrowed text books, in late-night rendezvous in parking lots and alleyways.

“Clara was telling me the other day that a gay man has moved into her building,” her mother had once shared over dinner. She stabbed her fork into the slice of chicken on her plate, pushing it against the porcelain, her lips pursed in distaste. “Times are changing, Mari. The politicians are letting them get married now.”

Mari thought of the girl she loved, and knew her mother, just like her god, would not approve.  

[madameber]

counting sheep

i have known nights where men walk the sun and the stars count people sheep huddle together in grassy fields dreaming of fences worn down see, the funny thing about nights is at some point you can’t tell the difference between the first and the last (And hey, Diddle diddle The cat’s lost his fiddle Orion’s got a belt Round his neck) the lass on the moon plucks planets from the blue and decorates the tangles in her hair see, the funny thing about dreaming is at some point you can’t tell the difference between what hurts and what doesn’t (The cat’s started drinking Orion’s stopped thinking) dawn decides to sleep in for just another hour or two see, the funny thing about nights is i have always known them but know nothing of you (And the fiddle has gone out of tune).

art by Folkloor words by madameber

[madameber]

i’m a little bit confused ‘cause with your attitude i’m really getting in the mood but if this is gonna be casual intimacy then i might as well consider myself screwed.

madameber (via madameber)

[serendipity-l]

something about this place gives me goosebumps.

[kag-san]

[sodhya-deactivated20181218]

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