Unécorn.

pretending to be pretentious while actually absolutely clueless.

[daily-deliciousness]

Caprese salad

[lewis-carroll]

“Alice in Wonderland” by Vladimir Clavijo-Telepnev

[unemari-blog]

Reliable Notions.

Consistently at war with the knowledge that for some you are not enough and for others you are far too much and trying not to care too much, because either way no one gives a fuck.

[extramadness]

[abduction]

[inferior]

By Anne Fleur Sire

[wnq-music]

This morning, with her, having coffee.

Johnny Cash, when asked about his paradise (via wnq-music)

[fuhxz]

I’ll meet you between what I said and what I meant to say

(via fuhxz)

[wnq-quotes]

The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other.

Osho

Read More on wordsnquotes

(via wordsnquotes)

[thegoodvybe]

[unemari-blog]

Air.

Little boys looking for direction.

Raised by women who weren't taught affection.

Minds filled with a craving to learn.

A system so broken they feel it is not their concern.

Stomachs filled with air.

And yet, children play and laugh without a care.

Little boys looking for direction.

Raised by women who weren't taught affection.

[haikkun]

Ichor Rust

You know that feeling At the start Little whirring raptors Round the rafters Of your heart Gorging on the pests That build the nests Which bring the whole eaves down Cautionary tail feathers Seem singed, but tis just rust Iron blue bird blood Hasten his ascent unto the moon Sound of fresh keys Twisting In the lock Even as the door begins To rot And twenty four Icterids Boil in a pot

Maureen Armstrong @haikkun

[unemari-blog]

The shortest story, the longest wait.

She sat there waiting,

The tressle trembling to the rhythm of her anxious feet.

The porcerlain in her hand ice cold.

The pack of Marlboro ,half empty.

One clings to her chewed and chapped lips,the smoke travelling down her throat as the tar settles in her lungs and clings to each fibre: as she wishes he had done.

For he lives within her now,but not as her own but as a ghost of lovers past.

Knuckles white as she clutches for the last hope that he will show.

She walks away and gives one last glance to the scene of what could have been.

[criwes]

[unemari-blog]

Heart lines

The history of her heart lays within the faint scars on the inside of her arms.

[unemari-blog]

Shelter

We took shelter in one another's friendship in the only way we knew how.

Interwined fingers in bedsheets

Sweet kisses on my cheek

Safety blankets of I love you

And fire escapes filled with promises by people who were too empty to make them

And now the shelter is gone

And so are you.

[olivedunham]

have you considered that maybe i am not pleasant? maybe i wear lipstick so that you will see my pretty pink mouth wrapping around a coffee cup lid and be distracted enough not to notice that i am intelligent and powerful; a threat. maybe i draw my brows into high arches so you will look at my unimpressed skepticism and overlook my spiteful glare as a trick of my silly, girlish routine. maybe i wear my heels so high and thin so that i grasp your attention with the sway of my hips as i listen to the click-clack-click against the floor and know that if you should try to overpower me i walk on sharpened knives. maybe when i laugh at your worthless jokes i am really baring my fangs waiting patiently for the day that i sink them into your neck. i am not made of porcelain pleasantries; you will find that these things are my armor to keep you at a distance so you do not step on me and shatter my fragile control. i am not a husk – i am not wilting. i am turning my head so that the fire blazing through my eyes does not catch on the accelerant of your sweaty palms and burn your bones to dust. i am not your pretty girl; i am a fury, a faerie, a phoenix – a forest of werewolves and wendigos that will carve out your chest so that the next time i paint my pretty pink lips i will taste the copper tang of your dying breaths.

R.K., I Am The Wolf Only Barely Contained (via clizzy)