The Bitchening

[flowerytale]

“The Blue Iris”, from Andrea Zanatelli’s embroidery series

[derangedrhythms]

Khalym Kari Burke-Thomas, from ‘Carib Woman, 1818′

[poetic-pandemonium]

“I cannot conceive of any beauty in which there is no melancholy.”

Charles Baudelaire

[89cats]

(by greekcatwalks)

[neshamama]

at montreux jazz ‘76, nina simone closed with a dramatic interpretation of easy listening hit ‘feelings’ by morris albert. in the last few minutes of this finale, she says ‘im not going to let you go so soon, and so embarrassingly soft, so let’s, please, to the chorus’ for a moment, simone stops singing, with one hand remaining on the piano and the other conducting the audience, whose vocal accompaniment overlays simone’s gentle playing in a tentative but tender embrace. simone improvises the final lyrics and melody, begins vulnerably, closes with a bang, and says good night.

[metamorphesque]

musings on hands

Ocean Vuong, Don Snyder, Richard Siken, Masao Yamamoto, Franz Kafka, Hussein Chalayan, Sylvia Plath

buy me a coffee

[vexheart]

“I wish you to know

that you have been the last dream of my soul.”

—Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

[raspberryprince]

i am STILL HORNY in the middle of a pandemic. the grind never stops

[metamorphesque]

To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.

Sappho | Leonardo Bistolfi | Safet Zec | Richard Siken | Brokeback Mountain (dir. Ang Lee) | Emery Allen | Ron Hicks | Jorge Luis Borges | Holly Warburton | Richard Siken | Joseph Lorusso

[wormbus-art]

And the grass where you lay left a bed in your shape

[lovegripe]

Heart Pours #3

It's been over a month. I had a dream you sent me an email and the subject line was "Hi....7 weeks" I finally looked at your social media today, I held myself back until I knew I would be alone. Hearing your voice, watching your nervous mannerisms that your hands make. I broke out crying. I still miss you. What am I going to do? Why do I keep looking for you in other people? Hoping against hope I'll find another connection like ours.

I'm staying at Henry's place taking care of Juno. It's the first time I've been up here since aunty passed. I feel like.....every little crumb, every cobweb, every stain is crying out. My catharsis of not being able to be here when she died is cleaning every dusty dingy corner. I leave the windows open and burn incense and sage. I miss my aunt.

[lovegripe]

Heart Pours #2

You continue to haunt my days. I don't want you constantly entering my thoughts like this. I wonder sometimes, what if I died? Would you ever find out? Would you care? I used to think I meant so much to you. I've been keeping myself from looking you up. It still hurts too much to see you living as if nothing has changed in your life. As if a person you once shared deep secrets and long gazes with was suddenly gone. You'd think there might be a trace of melancholy. I'm not going to search for something I know isn't there.

Once this ache is dulled I may send you the house warming gifts I bought you months ago. A small tear drop shaped stained glass sun catcher in shades of purple and an iron on patch from Mother Moo. I know your favorite color is purple and your weird fixation on that local ice cream shop. I know so much about you and yet it wasn't enough. Was I not enough? I know I am so much, but I can't help but have these thoughts tumble through my brain at night. 

 I hope I haunt your thoughts.

[lovegripe]

Heart pours #1

I'm not sure what to write to you. Partly because I'm still in shock and partly because you'll never read this. I thought we had something that transcended flirtation and curiosity. It felt so deep and I can't understand why it seemed so easy for you to just cut that off. I know I didn't imagine our connection, I know you cared for me, at least for a time. So what changed that? Did my charm turn into annoyance? Did you meet someone else? Or did you just get bored. It feels like ages since I talked to you when I know its only been a few weeks. I think of you constantly still, sometimes fondly but more and more with anger.

Maybe I didn't tell you enough how much you meant to me. Maybe I didn't express how happy you made me. I'll probably never know, you left so many things unanswered, and if there's one thing I can't stand it's unresolved endings. I know you had doubts in the beginning but the way we would talk for hours made it seem like none of that mattered. There was no distance in my love for you. I have been infatuated with men, I have cared for men, but I think you were the closest I've ever come to truly loving a man. To love someone you have to respect them and man....did I respect you. The way you ended things held no respect for me.

You were blatant in your poor excuse as to why you couldn't handle talking to me anymore. And on top of it you had the nerve to suggest that if I was ever in your area to reach out and you'd try and meet up. Why in the world would I want to meet up with a man that can't even handle talking to me anymore? Do you know how confusing that is? I'm sick and can't even be bothered with your messages, but please do reach out if you're near me and I'll maybe see you. Why would you want to meet someone you don't even want to talk to?

I wish you knew how much I fucking miss you every day. I wish you knew how I have cried my eyes out, how empty I feel knowing you don't care. I wish you felt guilty.

I knew the likelihood of us working out was slim. There were plenty of things I know we didn't agree on that most likely would of caused us to part at some point. The distance seemed like a small hill to surmount compared to everything else. Another miscalculation on my part, in a life filled with sloppy math and discarded formulas

[unadoptable-deactivated20200601]

[piekna-epoka]

Andrzej Wróblewski - Autoportret z żoną, maj 1954

[naturaekos]

[thegirlthatcriesacademia]

They lived and laughed and loved and left.

Joanne Harris // Cecelia Ahern // Illustration by Cecile Richard // Rupi Kaur // Margarita Karapanou // Miranda July // Taylor Swift // T. R. Hummer // Richard Siken // James Joyce