Untitled

[metamorphesque]

there is a moment between jumping from the frying pan into the fire that feels a lot like liberation

[sloppjockey]

ahoundoftongue. gouache watercolor painting on paper, 3x4 inches

[milenahonore]

post-it warfare

You wage war against a door. Move your pieces, sharpen your sword, consult the bones, hope its weaknesses are your strengths.

You have a nice smile, but your back teeth are rotting, and it never asked to see you.

Maybe he’s not amazed. Maybe he doesn’t want to die happy— here or now, anymore. Maybe he’s holding your best friend hostage, and maybe it is personal.

And you can’t pass a Post-it note through enemy lines: “Please bear my infirmities.” “Double cross him, like you did me.” “Take my side, for once.”

You run out of space. You write it small, like it doesn’t matter: “I’m sorry.”

[constanzarte]

The Death of Icarus, by Alexandre Cabanel

[milenahonore]

do NOT handle with care!!!!!!

Picture this: Instead of catching in my orbit, you crash into me. Picture this: Instead of drowning in your wave, I crash into you.

No illusion of safety from the mess, no fear of missteps. Let my tears hurt your feelings. Let your vomit stain my sheets. Let us break each other— on purpose

If we hated each other a little bit, this all could’ve worked out.

We’d be fogging up car windows, laughing, twisting sheets. You’d be all of my favorite songs on repeat. I’d keep you warm and busy, spend my days chasing your laugh

I could yell at you. I could cry. I could demand. You could lie— so I could catch you.

And we’d hate each other a little, but love each other a lot, enough to laugh at the debris

and stay

[alreadyontomorrow]

Are you sure it was nothing because it made me feel like dying

[gacougnol]

Harold M. Lambert

Three Deers Laying Down In Snowy Forest In Winter, 1940

[milenahonore]

when my cue comes, call me, and i will answer

backstage, and it’s all going wrong— the lines I wrote are not in order at all. they crafted my midsummer’s dream into a Siberian winter. days too short to get anything done, didn’t I paint you too immortal to be such a fool?

spilled out your lines ten years too late, was it really better than never at all? the colors aren’t right— my heroes turn to villains, the fools more foolish.

I charged you stay, looked with my mind— held his wings down at gunpoint, told him to make you blind, to all the mistakes you could make, to familiar paths that take you away from anything good, and anyone that loves you at all.

[milenahonore]

The experience of eros as lack alerts a person to the boundaries of himself, of other people, of things in general. It is the edge separating my tongue from the taste for which it longs that teaches me what an edge is.

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet

[louisegluck]

Anne Carson, from Red Doc> [ID in alt text]