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Audrey Hepburn

The problem is everyone assumes that they’re the main character in everyone else’s lives, when the truth of the matter is, we’re just background characters. We’re just the ensemble. I’m not the hero in everyone’s story, the same way I’m not the love interest in everyone’s life. I regret the times I’ve been the villain too, but people are allowed to make me whoever they want in their own story. I don’t care anymore. In my story, I used to be the damsel in distress, but now I am the girl who falls in love with hurricanes and doesn’t look back. And eventually we’ll all just become stories, and fading memories, we’ll become pictures on family trees, and life’s too short to keep trying to be so important in somebody else’s story, that you stop writing your own.

laceerainspoetry, The People Are Books I Can’t Stop Reading (via wnq-writers)

#prose

latenightcornerstore

The first time he calls you holy, you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt. The second time, you moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth. He has always surprised you into surprising yourself. Because he’s an angel hiding his halo behind his back and nothing has ever felt so filthy as plucking the wings from his shoulders— undressing his softness one feather at a time. God, if you’re out there, if you’re listening, he fucks like a seraphim, and there’s no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands. Hands that map a communion in the cradle of your hips. Hands that kiss hymns up your sides. He confesses how long he’s looked for a place to worship and,oh, you put him on his knees. When he sinks to the floor and moans like he can’t help himself, you wonder if the other angels fell so sweet. He says his prayers between your thighs and you dig your heels into the base of his spine until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue. You will ruin him and he will thank you; he will say please. No damnation ever looked as cozy as this, but you fit over his hips like they were made for you.You fit, you fit, you fit. On top of him, you are an ancient god that only he remembers and he offers up his skin. And you take it. Who knew sacrifice was so profane? And once you’ve taught him how to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other, you will have forgotten every other word, except his name.

PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

#poetry