Cosmic Funnies
AnasAbdin
Game of Thrones Daily
Cosimo Galluzzi
KIROKAZE
dirt enthusiast
Three Goblin Art
h

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣

Love Begins
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
ojovivo
No title available
No title available

oozey mess
Show & Tell

roma★
taylor price
Not today Justin
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
seen from Canada

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Trinidad & Tobago
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Canada
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Denmark
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Japan
@marrixoxo
Makenzie Campbell, from a poem featured in "2 a.m. Thoughts," originally published in 2017
March 16th, 1935 Virginia Woolf, “A Writer’s Diary” (1918 - 1941)
Marina Tsvetaeva, from a poem titled "When it’s unbearable," (edited) featured in Moscow in the Plague Years: Poems
Ariel Day, from a poem titled "Long Term Memory," featured in Black Roses: Poems about Love, Heartbreak, Mental Health, Self Love
"Wanted"
I want to feel wanted—
not briefly, not in passing,
but etched into you,
a thought that lingers long after the lights dim
and the world exhales.
I want to live in your mind
like a favorite song you hum without realizing,
my name resting behind your teeth,
my memory warming you
when the night turns quiet and heavy.
I want your fingers to ache for mine,
to curl instinctively as if reaching for me
even when I’m not there.
To feel the absence between your knuckles
like a pulse,
like something unfinished.
I want your neck to miss my breath—
that slow, deliberate nearness,
heat hovering just close enough
to make your skin listen.
My lips not rushing,
just learning the language of you,
teaching patience,
teaching hunger.
I want soft hands—
yours and mine—
mapping familiar territory as if it’s sacred,
as if every inch deserves reverence.
Caressing slowly,
then with need,
then with the kind of pressure
that says stay
without speaking at all.
I want the way touch can undo us,
how it melts the armor we swear we don’t wear,
how it turns silence into confession.
Skin remembering skin,
even after it’s gone,
even after the room is empty.
I want to be the thought
that makes you close your eyes,
the pause in your breath,
the warmth that spreads
when you think you’re alone.
I don’t want to be borrowed.
I don’t want to be almost.
I want to be chosen—
again and again—
with intention,
with longing,
with that quiet certainty
that says:
you are mine to want,
and I want you completely.
Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
L. V., excerpts from the afterword
Love, Spoken in Blankets
I am a hopeless romantic—
I carry your name in my chest
like a prayer that never ends.
I want to tuck you into my love,
wrap you in it until the world
can’t reach you anymore.
I would fall to my knees for you,
worship the warmth of your skin,
trace divinity in every breath you take.
I would make a god of you
with soft hands,
with reverence,
with devotion that never asks why.
I want to give you everything—
flowers chosen just for your smile,
your favorite snacks placed in your hands,
kisses that linger like promises,
love bites that say you are wanted,
touches that say you are safe.
I want to watch affection
spark in your eyes,
bright as a star remembering
how to burn.
And here is my quiet fault:
sometimes I want the same miracle
to happen to me.
To be loved with intention.
To be reached for without asking.
To be wrapped, too.
Love languages stumble,
hands miss the rhythm,
devotion speaks in dialects
we don’t always understand.
Still—
I love you in every language I know,
even when my own
go unanswered.
Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
"The Trap I Keep Calling Love"
Why am I never enough
for anyone?
I open myself like a wound,
rip out my heart
and lay it gently on a platter—
a fragile offering,
a delicate meal.
Only to watch it burn,
to see it carved and butchered,
sliced apart
by hands that never learned softness.
And still—
I keep trying.
Still—I return.
I never hold myself back,
I never stay whole.
I give and give
until the pieces of me
are thin as paper,
scattered like scraps on the floor.
There is not much left
to offer.
I am hurt again and again
like some injured creature
caught in the same rusted trap,
bleeding, trembling,
not knowing how to escape
the lure that keeps calling me forward.
Why do I do this to myself?
Why must I hunt for “love,”
when every time I find it,
it leaves new wounds—
another scar,
another ache,
another reminder
that wanting to be loved
has only ever taught me
how to break.
Izabella
the girl with the sad face not looking but somehow frowning at what we are in background ever so gray cloudy, foggy just like the days we live in so depressing yet we close our eyes just frown even that’s not enough to express what we’re living
L. V., excerpts from the afterword
How long will this pain last?