“My sin is that all my world is in him.”
— Alexandra Andreyevna, from a letter to M. P. Ivanova wr. c. October 1902
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@skull--candy
“My sin is that all my world is in him.”
— Alexandra Andreyevna, from a letter to M. P. Ivanova wr. c. October 1902
“He turned me into an object and I turned him into a god. How sick is that?”
— (via paintdeath)
pretty angel,
so white and pure,
ditch that halo,
forget your god with me.
All you had to do was keep your hands to yourself, darling boy, but you defiled your own body and were cast out of your holy home.
Now, love, you’re on my turf. This is cursed ground, and I am its ruler, and now you are my subject. You enjoyed it when you destroyed your holiness, and I know you’d give anything to experience it again. So come, pretty angel, and submit to your new unholy God.
Keep your legs open for me, and only me, and scream out my name while I show you who owns you now.
your divinity caged in flesh makes you no less divine
“I’d like to die in your arms – perhaps that’s my great wish – it always was.”
— Alfred Stieglitz, from a letter to Georgia O’Keeffe written c. June 1929
romance the grotesque of the deeper gods
god touched; sun kissed; star born
“I would go with you to the world’s end and to the end of life.”
— Henrik Ibsen, from The Complete Plays & Works; “When We Dead Awaken,”
the lightning in my veins
the thunder in my head
the rain falling down my cheek
i am the storm.
baby you made me the person i am
It hurt so much to fall…
But it was worth it just to land at your feet.
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god, / Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
Georg Trakl, from Poems & Prose: A Bilingual Edition; “Grodek,”
There isn’t one clean thing about him; his mouth tastes like nicotine, there’s blood under his nails, his hair smells like matches and whiskey. The way that he loves you is unclean. You let him defile you, hoping he’ll dirty you too.
God you’re beautiful. I want to wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze, just to see that lovely skin get a little redder, those enchanting eyes get a bit wider. I want to know how you’d look with a knife to your throat, or a flame at your fingertips. Show me your pain, beautiful creature. I’d never kill you, don’t fret. But I feel as though I live to put you in danger.
“I will give you lilies in my savage lips;”
— Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth: Poems; “Lover,”
“God-intoxicated.”
— Ovid, The Art of Love (Book I, v. 313)