on loving a fighter
Stranger Things
dirt enthusiast
todays bird
YOU ARE THE REASON
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Peter Solarz

Love Begins

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
No title available

#extradirty

@theartofmadeline

roma★

Discoholic 🪩

Origami Around
Misplaced Lens Cap
occasionally subtle

No title available

blake kathryn

Kaledo Art
ojovivo
seen from Germany

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Taiwan

seen from Brazil
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seen from Singapore
@wewereoncekings
on loving a fighter
southern gothic is a subgenre of gothic fiction unique to american literature that takes place exclusively in the american south. [x]
Robert Montgomery in Neue Berliner Räume
Photo by Caroline Kurze
saints without name | michaela knizova
We kissed because we were starving for it. We were so desperate with each other that every time we went out, at least one person would pull me to the side and ask if one of us was dying. The answer, of course, was always yes. We didn’t even know what to do with our hands. Sometimes, they’d wind up on my mouth, over your entire face, trailing up and down your spine, nails like rakes over angry red skin. It couldn’t have been pretty, and God, if you were watching, you’re a pervert, but I’m also sorry. We loved like we were trying to make up for lost time. Every touch an apology, an “I’m sorry I haven’t been with you everyday since elementary school.” There was no way it wouldn’t end badly, so we stayed away from fire, because we knew what it could do to beautiful things. We spent an hour everyday in separate parts of the apartment, relearning distance, trying to remember how to measure in feet and inches instead of eyelashes and arms. I could feel you in the kitchen. I could feel how tense your muscles were, how tightly your jaw was clenched. Every length of you was humming without me. I knew you like the back of your hand. Every vein, every freckle. That scar in-between your middle and ring finger from when you fell down during a game of kickball. It was all urgency. All fire-engine red. We saw the smoke coming from a mile away and kissed the treetops before they coughed and writhed under the flames. It was a beautiful forest. Too beautiful to stay. I will never forget the place that I loved you, even if it is raining ash. I hear some of the trees are still alive on the inside.
desperate | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)
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. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince (via libranta)
why is it always the woman who has to see past the beast in the man? why does she always have to clean his wounds, even after he has damaged her beyond repair? why is it always the man who is worthy of forgiveness for being a monster? I want to see the beast in the beauty. the half smile, half snarl. the unapologetic anger. I would like to see the man forgive the monster. to see her, blood and all, and love her anyway.
beauty and the beast | Caitlyn S. (via yasodhara)
Central Station. Detroit, Michigan. By country_boy_shane
It was a Saturday when he finally told me that he understood why I wrote about things that hadn’t happened. “You’re not a liar, you just remember all the lives you used to live. It’s like whatever hand comes through us when we die and wipes the slate clean forgot about you. You’re living in hundreds of different bodies and you never know which one is bleeding.” One day, he told me that he felt the bones of a jazz singer who died from heartbreak when he touched me. He told me he could hear her voice melting my tongue with trumpets. He told me I tasted like whiskey when we kissed. and I love him better than anyone. I love him in each body and each person who whispers like a ghost in my veins. We dance in my cluttered living room and sing along to Etta James like there isn’t anywhere to be. He loves so hard, it hurts. The shoemaker from Paris likes to talk through me, somedays. She likes to kiss his feet and talk about French cinema. The painter from Greece likes to trace his jawbone as if it’s the road leading up to her house. She likes to run her fingers along his spine and count the steps to her front door. He has found names for all of the people I have been. He has a list of all the colors that each of them are. I am white, because he says that’s the only color he can see after he looks into the sun. The little boy who couldn’t speak, but played the piano like Mozart, was blue. The nun who prayed to God until her throat bled was purple. He sits with me while I write my poems. He smiles and names the color. Baby blue, black, yellow, cerulean, gold, green. He is red. The kind of red that has a pulse. It beats angry and persistent in my hands. When we kiss, he pulls my heart out with his teeth. Neither one of us apologize for the blood
Colors | Caitlyn S. (via alonesomes)
Classic Ride by Violet Kashi
“The Universe, she’s wounded. She’s got bruises on her feet. I sat down like I always did, and tried to calm her down. I sent her my warmth and my silence and all she sends me back is rain. The Universe, she’s wounded but she’s still got infinity ahead of her, she’s still got you and me, and everybody says that she’s beautiful. The Universe she’s dancing now. They got her all lit up, lit up on the moon. They got stars doing cartwheels, all the nebulas in tune and the Universe, she’s whispering so softly I can hear all the croaking insects, all the taxicabs, all the bum’s spent change, all the boys playing ball in the alleyways, they’re just folds in her dress.”
— Gregory Alan Isakov, The Universe
from chrysopoetics, by notbecauseofvictories
Oh Death, Jen Titus
“It is dark, Yeshua, in Jerusalem tonight, and it is cold without the others here. A bright-eyed convert came seeking Jude today, and I had to tell her. It never stops hurting, relating how it took eight Roman arrows to drive him to his knees, where he venerated your name with cracked lips and grit teeth. A man should never abandon faith in his god or hope that his brother will one day return home, he said. Denying his messiah would betray both principles, he said. The soldiers claim that was the last thing he said, but I know it was a hoarsely murmured Hebrew prayer that your father taught the both of you when you were small. The people of this city delighted in bludgeoning Matthias folding stones into their children’s hands and cheering as his sacrificial blood stained the cobblestones. Forgive the Armenians, they didn’t mean to kill Bartholemew, but the strips of flesh their whips tore from his body did not prove blessed or impervious to attack. He bled out raw and battered and sick with the thought of you. Andrew showed more resolve, singing hymns as he blistered spread-eagled in the Greek sun, and Peter never lost an ounce of his zealotry, demanding to be crucified upside down so none may say he was worthy of your death, Yeshua. Phillip followed in their suffocating footsteps, unremarkably. Mark fell in Egypt, dragged behind a chariot, Luke, near the Mediterranean, blue faced and tightly noosed, and Matthew in Ethiopia, run through by foreign steel. They perished in the hope that you would return any day now, any instant. I do not think they understood. I am the only one left, an old man with nothing to give but fairytales bearing your name, with no company but visions of the end and the hope that soon, the end will find me. So you must understand, Yeshua, that I cannot grant your wish. I will pen revelations and prophecies until my bones turn to dust, But you cannot ask me to recall Simeon’s laugh, Peter’s infectious scheming, the tenderness of your mother, the dark gleam of Mary’s hair as she danced in the firelight. Your voice still rattles in the hollow spaces between my ribs, I see the lines of your face in the paths of the stars and that is pain enough, I think. I am too old to argue, rabbi, and do not wish it on tonight of all nights. Ask me tomorrow, when the moonlight does not make the river look so much like the blood of my comrades. Perhaps then I will not wish so much to join them. Perhaps then I will be able to compose a gospel worth the telling.”
— Lamentation of John (alternately titled Some Manuscripts Read: The Prophet does Not Come) by S.T. Gibson
okayophelia:
#oh nooooo #you are their desert; their devil; the only thing that ever got close to tempting them from divinity #(and you never even got that close; not by a hair's breadth; not by the skin cracking around their edges)