May all my OTPs be hella gay.

30 trans man. CT USA Don't yell at me I'm insecure 😟 my blog is nsfw

[wedarkacademia]

(via violentwavesofemotion)

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Clarice Lispector, from Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector

[geryone]

Woman, Eat Me Whole, Ama Asantewa Diaka

[metamorphesque]

— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, from letters to Natalie Paley

[text ID: Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence.]

[dark-romantics]

~ Courtney Peppernell

[silverystardustt]

oh wow

[voirlvmer]

“Pour water over each wound. What about the wound inside me, the wound I was born into? Where do I pour when I am the wound? I am what wounds me.”

— Sanna Wani, from “Princess Mononoke (1997)”, My Grief, the Sun

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 6: 1955-1966

[voirlvmer]

“But grief compels me, maybe even more than sleep. I am waiting for something to last. I know nothing will.”

— Sanna Wani, “Who is the Sun, Asking for Sleep?”, My Grief, the Sun

[shisasan]

𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟻, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟹 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟶 -𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟹

[ID: I’ll shut myself off from everyone to the point of insensibility. Make an enemy of everyone, speak to no one. END ID]

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Susan Sontag, from “Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963”

[dionysian-mystery]

The Castle by Franz Kafka

[wordscanbeenough]

“And I saw it didn’t matter / who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.”

— Dorianne Laux, from “After Twelve Days of Rain”, What We Carry

[thehopefulquotes]

“Waiting is a sign of true love and patience. Anyone can say “I love you”, but not everyone can wait and prove it’s true.”

— lieinlove

[feral-ballad]

Blythe Baird, from If My Body Could Speak; “Eat”

[Text ID: “I am trying to stop doing / things that don’t make any sense. Body, / forgive me. I am trying. I am trying. I am still trying.]

[geryone]

Blud, Rachel McKibbens

[geryone]

Pink, Sylvie Baumgartel

[metamorphesque]

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath

[text ID: And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.]