I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
Richard Siken, Crush (via illuminosity)
Tag: words
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)
(…) Here is my hand, my heart,
my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated
cities at the center of me, and here is the center
of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we
can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.
I just don’t want to die anymore.
Richard Siken, from Saying Your Names (via sir-orfeo)
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)
I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.
So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
Jorge Luis Borges (via 7mayforever)
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