a human. being

sarah. 18. I am a moth Who just wants to share your light. I'm just an insect Trying to get out of the night I only stick with you Because there are no others You are all I need You're all I need I'm in the middle of your picture Lying in the reeds

[anchisiades]

[co77y]

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Don’t feel bad for me I want you to know Deep in the cell of my heart I will feel so glad to go

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[loveshocks]

[vladtheunfollower]

Think, now: if you have found a dead bird, not only dead, not only fallen, but full of maggots: what do you feel – more pity or more revulsion?

Pity is for the moment of death, and the moments after. It changes when decay comes, with the creeping stench and the wriggling, munching scavengers.

Returning later, though, you will see a shape of clean bone, a few feathers, an inoffensive symbol of what once lived. Nothing to make you shudder.

It is clear then. But perhaps you find the analogy I have chosen for our dead affair rather gruesome – too unpleasant a comparison.

It is not accidental. In you I see maggots close to the surface. You are eaten up by self-pity, crawling with unlovable pathos.

If I were to touch you I should feel against my fingers fat, moist worm-skin. Do not ask me for charity now: go away until your bones are clean.

— Fleur Adcock, from Poems: 1960-2000; “Advice to a Discarded Lover,”

[ana-elisabeta]

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[floriental]

Len Howard, Living with Birds, 1956

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[powerful-art]

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