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Watts George Frederic Choosing, possibly 1864 (Detail)

And so I undertake my journeying into the ways of vulnerability again, and of what I define as love…

Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in “The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

My darling, my blood.

Million Dollar Baby (2004) dir. by Clint Eastwood (via violentwavesofemotion)

I analyzed her lyrically, poetically, fantastically.

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)

Evening: to walk into my house is to walk into dawn, into color, into music, into perfume, into magic, into harmony.

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 3: 1939-1944 (via violentwavesofemotion)

Busy missing you — I have not tasted Spring —

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Susan Gilbert c. April 1868 (via violentwavesofemotion)

I didn’t belong to anyone. I / wouldn’t allow myself to belong / to anyone.

Marie Howe, from Magdalene: Poems; “The Seven Devils,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

Between two walls, a fold of echoes, A girl’s voice walks naked.

James Wright, from Exile’s Home: The Poetry of James Wright; “Snowstorm in the Midwest,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

I sniff a fire burning without outlet, / consuming acrid its own smoke. It’s me.

John Berryman, from The Heart Is Strange: New Selected Poems; “Homage To Mistress Bradstreet,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

Of the “thorn”, dear, give it to me, for I am strongest. Never carry what I can carry, for though I think I bend, something straightens me.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Louise Norcross c. May 1871 (via violentwavesofemotion)

She is a writer; a born writer. Everything she feels and hears and sees is not fragmentary and separate; it belongs together as writing.

Virginia Woolf, from Complete Works; “A Terribly Sensitive Mind,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

The leaf. The reach. The blossom. The abandon.

Eavan Boland, from New Collected Poems: “The Woman Turns Herself Into A Fish,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

her body the arrow of longing, aimed, as all desperate things are, to crash not into the object of desire, but into the darkness behind it.

Traci Brimhall, “Aubade with a Broken Neck,” (via oh-girl-among-the-roses)

How light the raindrop’s contents are. / How gently the world touches me.

Wislawa Szymborska, from View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems (via violentwavesofemotion)

spring blush