if this isnt nice

[pigmenting]

I’ve hoarded your name in my mouth for months. My throat is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! Look how long this love can hold its breath.

Sierra DeMulder, from “Your Love Finds Its Way Back” in Today Means Amen (via pigmenting)

[lifeinpoetry]

But the wolf is always there, even // when I can’t see it.

Brianna Albers, from “The Audre Lorde Questionnaire to Oneself,” published in DIALOGIST (via lifeinpoetry)

[alittlekendoll]

arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion! arousal! repulsion!

[coldsuggestion]

A man unrequitedly in love will stand outside your home and knock, throw, kick, holler, relentless in pursuit. Foreign to the idea of a space he is unwelcome in. A woman unrequitedly in love will sit. She’s far away from your house. She knows it’s not for her. She will wait, she has gifts prepared if she is ever invited in. She has herself prepared if she’s not.

[sifflements]

New little tattoo! A piece of heather

[frosya]

[lenarise-deactivated20191107]

well leonardo dicaprio might just get an oscar one of these days cause soon theyre gonna run out of white people to give them to

[antigonick]

I have not broken your heart — you have broken it — and in breaking it, you have broken mine.

Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights (via henrydear)

[qpulm]

Katatsumori (Naomi Kawase, 1994)

[theijeoma-deactivated20180827]

1. You must let the pain visit. 2. You must allow it teach you. 3. You must not allow it overstay.

Ijeoma Umebinyuo, three routes to healing  (via pastiness)

[quick-nip]

(via Saturday Morning Cartoons: Baopu #15) by Yao Xiao

words to remember

[northernballet]

Life of a dancer…

Northern Ballet First Soloist Antoinette Brooks-Daw backstage at David Nixon OBE’s The Nutcracker.

Photo Ian Forsyth/@gettyimages

[createandnarrate]

[loftliterary]

Make a writing habit

[sierrademulder-deactivated20211]

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (via sierrademulder)

[mattblease]

[celestial-sound]

Roslyn - Bon Iver & St. Vincent (2009)

[heavensmusic]

Visit Original Link

Worry is a bully that just won’t let me be