✺

the heart has uncountable rooms

[tamsoj]

Lidia Yuknavitch, Dora: A Headcase

[tristealven]

“I have a photograph of you when we ate an orange in bed. What month was that in? What did you want from me? Every book is a book, is a thing you feel by yourself. You are here. I am alone in this poem.”

— Alex Dimitrov, You Were Blond Once (via sagmoonn)

[veinings]

[spearsdaily-deactivated20220704]

[wedarkacademia]

Andrea Gibson

[blacknarcissus]

Le Combat dans L'île (1962)

[lelif]

How do I look away now that I have seen you?

on being seen and known and understood

Rachel Mennies, from "April 18, 2017", The Naomi Letters//Rick Riordan, Mark of Athena//picture: Mihaly Zichy "romantic encounter", quote: Micah Nemerever "These Violent Delights", edit @promqueendyke // Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"//Marie Howe, "The Affliction"//Anne Carson, "Red Doc>"//NA//Taylor Swift, "Daylight"//Elizabeth Gilbert, "Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage"//Little Women (2019)

[metamorphesque]

― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea

[text ID: I am going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep, sleep, eat. Exist slowly, softly, like these trees, like a puddle of water, like the red bench in the streetcar.]

[primulaceas]

James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

[jklinesblog-deactivated20220719]

[enamouredpoet-deactivated202205]

morgan harper nichols

[ritikajyala]

He asked me when I fell in love with him and I knew it sounded dramatic to say the moment I saw him, so I told him this story of my grandma who had Alzheimer's- she forgot her name and the words for fruit and food, she forgot her address and how to use the washroom, all her life lost to the disease. The only thing she remembered was her son's name and when that began to fade, the one thing she always remembered was that she loved him, even in illness, even in insanity. She saw this 6 foot 2 man with a scrubby beard and she didn't know him but she said she trusted him, she asked him to hold her hand when she died. When does memory end and love begin? All I know is- she loved him before she remembered him.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

[89words]

“Loving someone who hates themselves is a special kind of violence. A fight inside the bones. A war within the blood.”

— bone: ‘battle’ by Yrsa Daley-Ward

[89words]

“HADES : Each one of my ribs —I will open each one of my ribs with fingertips, break each one of my ribs, and allow you to dive your hands into my chest so you can feel the beating of my heart. I will show you that life isn’t always warm, isn’t always veiled in dusk and emerald. PERSEPHONE : And I will spit between your ribs and you will survive on my contempt.”

— Pauline Albanese, The Closed Doors 

[soracities]

Natalie Diaz, from The Hand Has Twenty-Seven Bones — : These Hands If Not Gods 

[Text ID: “Those lovers are mostly gone. My hands remain–: like altars.”]

[mustafacamurcu]

Nancy Fouts

[thewildetyme]

“What if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.”

— Franz Kafka