angels live inside your laugh

grace// she/her // XVI // my poetry g.s.s //

[bled]

[aphelionbruise]

poem for you no longer being the last person to have kissed me // alm

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Mother of otherness Eat me.”

— Sylvia Plath, from Selected Poems; “Who,”

[jawnkeets]

paris, september 2018

[pushkins]

when ophelia stepped into the throne room, she was madness given a voice; her fingernails missing and replaced with splintered aches; dirt, across her eyelids and cheeks — a war cry, an accusation in her song.

YOU, pray; PRAY YOU, MARK. (you listen, listen, listen now)

there’s nothing pretty about grief; it’s savage and raw, biting at the skin - tender or not - until it breaks. the muscle and fat between the crooked, yellow teeth of vain men.

there’s nothing beautiful about ophelia’s grief; it is wilting flowers and weeds, burning the skin - blisters swelling. fingers trampled by the heels of expectation and soles of ambition as they stepped over.

and the world has stepped on thousands of girls just like ophelia. again and again, and wondered what made them go mad.

inspired by this post.

[rbhvleo]

[onlydoll]

[adayinthelesbianlife-deactivate]

by lauren mclaughlin

[softlitstudent]

National Gallery East Wing

[bluebeardsbride-archive]

“God occupies me as a shapeless hunger.”

— Scherezade Siobhan, “The Mirror I Won’t” (Published in Rattle)

[victoriangold]

You ever see a pretty dress, a well-organised notebook, a peculiar balcony or read one line of poetry and get the overwhelming urge to reinvent yourself

[houndlings]

OPHELIA KNOX & THE BODY IN THE BACKSEAT –– The first paragraph in a novel about a girl who sets out to find Ted Bundy’s missing Volkswagen Beetle over the course of a summer where she, in no particular order, commits a series of small crimes, witnesses a murder, briefly attends a summer camp, and decides she hates Florida. 

Keep reading

[sunsounds]

living with identities that do not belong to me // for @avolitorial

[sunsounds]

“Can the body love beyond hunger? You tell me what you know of desire and surrender.”

— Marie Howe, The Teacher (ii), from “Magdalene: Poems” (via thebutchriarchy)

[aseaofquotes]

Wislawa Szymborska, “Could Have”

[blissies-deactivated20240301]

nomadic secrets & tattoo: 5.8.19

[lifeinpoetry]

                i don’t know how to explain what memory is, except that                 my therapist thinks it’s unhealthy the way i can’t stop comparing my sadness to a                 mountain.

— Topaz Winters, from “coda at an empty train station, 6:27 am,” poems for the sound of the sky before thunder