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Jules of Nature

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JBB: An Artblog!
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Cosimo Galluzzi
Three Goblin Art
RMH
noise dept.
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
NASA
Not today Justin
hello vonnie
$LAYYYTER

ellievsbear
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@moonlithum
“When he shall die Take him and cut him out in little stars And he will make the face of heav’n so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
—
Y quiero tardes sin recuerdos que me hagan lloviznar, y suspiros de alivio al saber que te olvido.
M. Sierra Villanueva (via ideasviajando)
From WeHeartIt
ay tengo que aprender esto lpm
one year of falling out of love
January: The year has turned the corner and we are still in love. Your eyes still enough to undress me like a shiver, and we spend hours in the shower just holding one another. One night, while drunk for the first time, a child’s shampoo bottle fills me with hysterics and I have never loved someone more.
February: Something between us has begun to scab, but I trust you, sometimes against my better judgment. In your words, you “think about me all the time.” A woman down the block becomes a widow and the word fascinates me for days. Not quite a window.
March: We run through the woods and immerse ourselves in lakes; I still marvel at your smell the morning you’ve left my bed. My feelings burst like blood vessels, our bodies together pulse like aneurysms.
April: Rain, straight heavy for a month. Something prickles the hair on the back of my neck, familiar like a childhood friend. I swallow cherry pits and hope to grow into something better than this.
May: There are no flowers this month. You still love me, but it’s distant.
June: Something happened, but naming it brings it to life. I bury it instead.
July: The groundskeeper helps me plant black-eyed susans, furrow each bulb into the ground like an anvil. Four lines of blood red tulips snake across the grass outside the psychology building.
August: Seven nights spent with fists balled against mouth, sobs climbing through like a brook. You say I can do anything I want with what happened; I am welcome to tell anyone. One night, you call me drunk and staggering, bike down by the river, regret a chokechain in the pit of your stomach.
September: I stop picturing our house, the dog, a baby, our picket fence. I don’t know what I want, but I know it’s not this.
October: You stop picturing them too.
November: It is the coldest winter on record. We no longer talk. I would still know your voice anywhere, just not everywhere.
December: It’s been a year since the first time you were inside me. And so it ends as it began, first in pleasure, then in pain.
Alex Turner
Anne Sexton, “The Truth the Dead Know”
from my self portrait series January 1st, January 2nd
full series on my website: millycope.com
Credit: @marionstylee
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