Nothing Ever Ends Poetically. It Ends And We Turn It Into Poetry. All That Blood Was Never Once Beautiful.

What a marvelous feeling it would be, if we could say exactly how we felt. What a monumental victory. What a terrifying thought.

Anaïs Nin, Fire: From “A Journal of Love”: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934–1937

changed lives

Halsey to matty

He doesn't like to cuddle. He likes to grip my hips and pull the fibers of pink tissue in shreds from my lip with his teeth. He throws his hands in the air like a messiah and leans his head out the open window. easy. breathe. codeine. breeze. We laugh loudly and kiss loudly and moan loudly. He mouths vulgar things that make me giggle in front of our friends. I run my hand along the seam off his tight black jeans beneath the table top. He rolls his eyes and smirks at me. We take every opportunity to touch, to feel, so secretly. So public. Exhibitionist pleasure. We play like children, tousling my hair and I climb on his back. We roll spliff after spliff and talk rapidly and vigorously and trip over each others sentences like a sidewalk crack. He says "us" like it means "amen" and his eyes burn wild with a fire of passion. We get drunk. Off of wine and skin and things we love. His smile erupts across his face like it could shatter his cheekbones. His eyes glimmer like a lake catching the glare of the moonlight. A glint of silver is growing up the side of his hairline. He thinks it makes him look distinguished. I laugh and agree. He loves to be so much older than me. He thinks it makes him wise. We spend a lot of time in hotel rooms with the doors shut. (We spend a lot of time outside of hotel rooms with our mouths shut.) He thinks the Xanax makes the sex last longer and I don't argue. I always wake up first. I sit at the desk and work quietly and glance at him in the sheets. Vulnerable and quiet. Soft face. Soft sounds. A warm cup of coffee and marmalade light through the windows. We bond over love for our brothers. We fight over where the chord change should go. We tease, oh we tease. He likes clean socks and messy hair and he runs his fingers down my overall straps with a tigers grin. He writes his name in the fog on the mirror from where he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pressed my face against the glass. He loves soul music. We sing confidently and triumphantly. I tap my fingers like spiders legs across his bare chest and undo his buttons one by one. I toss my head back and laugh maniacally and pout my lips when he won't be fair. He speaks like a pastor and trips over his words, his tongue struggles to meet his brain. That's how a prodigy thinks. (Or it's the drugs). He knows when my words are about him and he lets it all go to his head and I don't care because I love to watch him love himself. We laugh and fuck and play and write and plot and say goodbye and never worry. He is my occasional constant. A parody of himself. A paradox of ever present and transparent. I don't care what he is. I just care THAT he is. (via seenteenblack)

'The Picture of Dorian Gray' by Oscar Wilde (published in 1890)

Acts of Crucifixion, Kechi Nomu

I Will Tell this Story to the Sun Until You Remember that You are the Sun, Erin Slaughter

Sonnet Macabre by Theodore Wratislaw

I love you for the grief that lurks within

Your languid spirit, and because you wear

Corruption with a vague and childish air,

And with your beauty know the depths of sin;

Because shame cuts and holds you like a gin,

And virtue dies in you slain by despair,

Since evil has you tangled in its snare

And triumphs on the soul good cannot win.

I love you since you know remorse and tears,

And in your troubled loveliness appears

The spot of ancient crimes that writhe and hiss:

I love you for your hands that calm and bless,

The perfume of your sad and slow caress,

The avid poison of your subtle kiss.

Felt this. Way too much.

when Charles Bukowski said "and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?"

dirty valentine, richard siken