Femme Endormie avec son Chien.(Woman Sleeping with her Dog) - Louis Icart
French, 1888-1950
Oil on canvas

Janaina Medeiros
Misplaced Lens Cap
AnasAbdin
i don't do bad sauce passes
ojovivo

#extradirty
YOU ARE THE REASON
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Kiana Khansmith

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
d e v o n

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almost home

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taylor price
KIROKAZE
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dirt enthusiast

roma★
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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@hadesian
Femme Endormie avec son Chien.(Woman Sleeping with her Dog) - Louis Icart
French, 1888-1950
Oil on canvas
George Hitchcock - Vanquished (1895)
White Roses With Carpenter Bees - Paul de Longpré
Daughters
by Era V. Roman
What do I see in the mirror with my eyes red and salty? I see men who are too big for life And I see mothers who are too small. Do I see myself at all Or is it all just me?
///
by Era V. Roman
I see, I see.
Dust settles over my eyes.
I hear, I hear.
Wind muffles my ears.
With my tongue, I taste-
whose blood is this
dripping thick and sweet
like honey.
Which bee? Which flower?
I feel, I feel.
My hands are tied.
I am an open wound.
A dead thing and another
by Era V. Roman
From cold waters, you carry her home. You've seen dead things before, wounds: A woman and a woman and a woman.
At the doorstep, her mother greets you. With foresight, she's laid out her bed: A crib too small to hold her body.
You contort her in strange poses. The ice of her skin clings to you: Over the doorstep, you still carry her.
Clay heart
by Era V. Roman
My soul is a riverbed people go to bury their shame into. I carry their name engraved in the side of my ribcage, Droplets of their confessions clinging to my skin. From water to water, it pours into me. And I take it in with a wish to live anything at all. I fear I may break like the fragile handle of a pitcher And remain forgotten far away from the source, Spilling myself into the dry and unforgiving earth.
Telamon
by Era V. Roman
I’m a strong one.
I can take a punch to the jaw and swallow the blood like liquor.
I carry it all because I know I can take it,
And I wear my weakness as a fine necklace wrapped around my neck.
When I do ask for help it’s in the small things:
My voice a little too loud talking about my past,
Me crying to that song you’re playing,
Me joking how I’ve got no sleep last night for all the wrong reasons,
Me drinking that liquor like it’s blood.
I know I’ll meet my end by my own hands,
But I still have a little life, a little breath.
And I carry it all because I know I can take it,
But God, do I wish I wouldn’t have to carry it alone.
Detail of Sleeping Girl, 1620, by Domenico Fetti (1589-1623)
HELEADES II by Paola Padron
Aaron Brent Harker - One For Sorrow
https://www.aaronbrentharker.com/artwork
It's been a while, but I'm back with exciting news!! I published my first book 🎉 Check out Tales of Strange Women - a collection of short stories about... well, strange women! 😱
🆕BOOK OUT NOW➡ https://tinyurl.com/3ttm55pz
The morning song. 1883. Book cover, detail.
🌚
✨@_weezytaughtme_ 📸🔫@nattward
Botanical Gardens in Gothenburg // Doors
home is wherever the grief washes off your hands with the most ease. love nothing that can’t fit into your smallest pockets, and I will always be with you.
from Vintage Sadness by Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib (via heartmagician)
Where do you go when you go quiet?
Warsan Shire (via antigonies)