“He looks the most beautiful long past midnight when I am seated at the throne of his lap and our skin touches like lovers do. He arches his neck back and loops his lips into a silent shout to the heavens as he collapses under me. I tell him that he looks as though he has seen god. His chest shudders with his breath as he moans to the ceiling I have seen you.”
— INTIMACY
Tag: prose
I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
Richard Siken, Crush (via illuminosity)
Daughters of the horse-leech, thy tempest out-thunders me.
source: Israel Zangwill, Without Prejudice, 1899. This description, at the time meant to be as absurd a set of charges and demands as could be placed in a straw woman’s mouth, today reads like a beautiful manifesto.
I left the world as I came into it; wearing nothing but blood.
Polly Parsons, I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives In the House (via countesscorvidia)
What can I leave behind to remind you of me?
My ghost? What use is a ghost to you?
Anna Akhmatova, from In a Shattered Mirrror: The Later Poetry of Anna Akhmatova; “Cinque”
(via rhaegartargaryen)
(via rhaegartargaryen)
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait in Letters (via larmoyante)
be softer with you.
you are a breathing thing.
a memory to someone.
a home to a life.
nayyirah waheed
(via gillianstevens)
I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.
Catherynne M. Valente, from “The Red Girl,” The Bread We Eat in Dreams (via lucreziaborgia)
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