♡

"i will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister & saintly woman"

[lacan-psychoananalysisaspraxis]

Sartre- The Other is always there...

“…the ‘meaning’ of my expressions always escapes me. I never know exactly if I signify what I wish to signify nor even if I am signifying anything. It would be necessary that at the precise instant I should read in the Other what on principle is inconceivable. For lack of knowing what I actually express for the Other, I constitute my language as an incomplete phenomenon of flight outside myself. As soon as I express myself, I can only guess at the meaning of what I express, i.e., the meaning of what I am—since in this perspective to express and to be are one. The Other is always there, present and experienced as the one who gives to language its meaning.”

Jean Paul Sartre- Being and Nothingness.

[nemophilies-deactivated20190428]

I haven’t spoken to anyone for three days. I even like it. I think it’s good to keep silent for a while. Words can’t express everything a person feels.

Andrei Tarkovsky, The Mirror (1975)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I love you passionately, my little one — and I’d like you to feel it. It’s not just a tranquil fidelity that welds me to you. When I think about you, it’s as burning within me as if you were there — and I think about you all the time.

Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Jean-Paul Sartre featured in Letters To Sartre (via violentwavesofemotion)

[suspended-in-space]

They were solitary little girls whose loneliness was so profound it intoxicated them and sent them stumbling into Technicolored visions that always included a presence, a someone, who, quite like the dreamer, shared the delight of the dream.

Sula by Toni Morrison   (via lesgardenias)

[girl-meat-oldaccount-blog]

1. Cotton balls and cotton swabs and soft cotton underwear and pin curls and violet toilet water and lipstick the color of your gum and chewing politely with your mouth closed and keeping your bedroom eyes in the bedroom in a water glass by the bed by the foot by the drapes your mother drew with her magic marker making the rounds, making off. 3. See, first I put on the petty dress. No, I meant pity. No, pretty. First I put on the pretty dress. Then I twirl around and say, “Look at me! I am so pretty and petty! Pity me!” And then I say “Fuck this shit!” And then I lift my skirt. And then you do. 2. Spin spin spin spin. Run run run run. Nylons don’t if you clear them first with your nearest acquaintance who paints a transparence that it is so clearly apparent to anyone who looks (and everyone does) at your stockinged toes and the alluring ice-cream dripping down your luscious wrist.

(via lil-grl)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

When we lie quiet, I love him still, his hands, his wrists, his neck, his mouth, the warmth of his body, and the sudden leaping of his mouth. As he sits there, I feel that I can see his mind as I see his body, and it is labyrithine, fertile, sentient. I am loaded with adoration for everything that his head contains and for the impulses which blow in gusts.

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Henry and June: From “A Journal of Love” -The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin (1931-1932)

[lifeinpoetry]

I was like, “Here are all my scars. I’ll tell you my secrets as you die of boredom. Here are the answers to questions you never cared enough to ask.” I lifted up my shirt and said, “Please love me.” I lifted up my skirt and said, “Please don’t leave yet.”

Jade Sharma, from Problems (via lifeinpoetry)

[showstudio]

I was born without a skin. I dreamed once that I stood naked in a garden and that it was carefully and neatly peeled, like a fruit. Not an inch of skin left on my body. It was all gently pulled off, all of it, and then I was told to walk, to live, to run. I walked slowly at first, and the garden was very soft, and I felt the softness of the garden so acutely, not on the surface of my body, but all through it, the soft warm air and the perfumes penetrated me like needles through every open bleeding pore. All the pores open and breathing the softness, the warmth, and the smells. The whole body invaded, penetrated, responding, every tiny cell and pore active and breathing and trembling and enjoying. I shrieked with pain. I ran. And as I ran the wind lashed me, and then the voices of people like whips on me. Being touched! Do you know what it is to be touched by a human being!

Anais Nin, House of Incest   (via ninfolessia)

[wordsnquotes]

I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

Anna Kamieńska, A Nest of Quiet (via wordsnquotes)

[eveninglesbian-deactivated20180]

No. Not really red, but the color of a rose when it bleeds.

Anne Sexton, excerpt of “Song for a Red Nightgown,” The Complete Poems. (via stillbirthed)

[liquidlightandrunningtrees]

Everything affects my poetry, every day something happens that changes me forever. I’m susceptible and plastic, thin-skinned and moody.

Richard Siken (via mossful)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

If, the girl whispers, / I do not go into the fire / I will not be able to live with my soul.

Adrienne Rich, from The Fact Of A Doorframe; Poems Selected & New, 1950 - 2001: “Leaflets” (via abattoirette)

[eveninglesbian-deactivated20180]

You are twenty. You are not dead, although you were dead. The girl who died. And was resurrected. Children. Witches. Magic. Symbols. Remember the illogic of the fantasy.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via eveninglesbian)

[lifeinpoetry]

It sounds like a lullaby, and then it sounds like a pack of wolves, and then it sounds like a slaughterhouse, and then it sounds like a motel room and a married man saying I love you and the shower is running at the same time. It makes her teeth ache and her heart rattle.

Kelly Link, from “Louise’s Ghost,” Stranger Things Happen: Stories  (via skewd)

[mesogeios]

She was one of those languid women, made of dark honey, smooth and sweet, and terribly sticky, who take control of a room with a syrupy gesture, a toss of the hair, a single slow whiplash of the eyes — and all the while remain as still as the centre of a hurricane, apparently unaware of the force of gravity by which they irresistibly attract themselves the yearnings and the souls of both men and women.

Patrick Süskind, Perfume (via provst)

[mysharona1987]

Woman does not emerge from a man’s ribs, not ever, it’s he who emerges from her womb.

Nizar Qabbani 

[donna-marieriley-deactivated202]

belonging is easier when split into two words:   be longing. and i always am.

Donna-Marie Riley, from writing home